THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


POEMS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


from  an  unfinished  portrait  by  Louise  Waterman  Wive. 


POEMS 

(1904—1917) 


BY 

WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 


NEW  YORK 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1917 

All  rights  rtttruid 


COPYRIGHT  1912,  1914,  1915,  1916  AND  1917 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Collected  Edition.    Set  up 


Published,  September,  1917. 


•'*••• 


TO  MY  WIFE 


2041706 


CONTENTS 

AKRA  THE  SLAVE  PAGE 

AKRA  THE  SLAVE 3 

STONEFOLDS 

STONEFOLDS        33 

THE  BRIDAL 40 

THE  SCAR 47 

WINTER  DAWN 51 

THE  FERRY 57 

ON  THE  THRESHOLD 62 

DAILY  BREAD 

THE  HOUSE  OF  CANDLES 75 

ON  THE  ROAD .86 

THE    BETROTHED 92 

THE  FIRSTBORN 102 

"THE  FAMILY'S  PRIDE" 108 

THE  GARRET 113 

THE  SHIRT 123 

THE  MOTHER 127 

THE  FURNACE 135 

THE   CHILD 143 

THE  NIGHT-SHIFT 147 

AGATHA  STEEL 157 

MATES 162 

THE  OPERATION 171 

THE  CALL 176 

THE  WOUND     .     .     .      .     .     .     ,     .     .     .     .     .     .179 

SUMMER-DAWN  .     .     ... 184 

HOLIDAY 190 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

WOMENKIND  PAGE 

WOMENKIND 201 

FIRES 

THE  STONE 225 

THE  WIFE 228 

THE  MACHINE 232 

THE  LODESTAR 236 

THE  SHOP 242 

FLANNAN  ISLE 249 

THE  BROTHERS 252 

THE   BLIND   ROWER 257 

THE  FLUTE 260 

THE  CRANE 266 

THE  LIGHTHOUSE ;•  . .     .     .      .  270 

THE  MONEY 277 

THE  SNOW  .     .     .     .     .     ..'•••    V     ...  281 

RED  Fox       .     .     ^     .     .     *     ...     .     .     .     .     .  287 

THE  OVENS .     ...     .289 

THE  DANCING  SEAL     . 297 

THE  SLAG 300 

DEVIL'S  EDGE 304 

THE  LILAC  TREE 307 

THE  OLD  MAN 312 

THE  HARE 315 

THOROUGHFARES 

SOLWAY   FORD 327 

A  CATCH  FOR  SINGING 330 

GERANIUMS  ....... 33 1 

THE  WHISPERERS 332 

MABEL     . 333 

THE  VIXEN 334 

THE  LODGING  HOUSE 336 

THE  ICE 337 

WOOL  GATHERING 338 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

THE  TRAM  . 339 

ON  THE  EMBANKMENT 340 

THE  DANCERS 341 

THE  WIND 342 

THE  VINDICTIVE  STAIRCASE  OR  THE  REWARD  OF  INDUSTRY  343 

RAGAMUFFINS^ 345 

THE  ALARUM 346 

IN  A  RESTAURANT 347 

THE  GREETING 348 

WHEELS 349 

PROMETHEUS 352 

NIGHT 353 

ON  HAMPSTEAD  HEATH 354 

A  VISION  IN  A  TEA-SHOP 355 

LINES 356 

THE   DREADNOUGHT 357 

SIGHT 358 

THE  GORSE 359 

BORDERLANDS 

THE  QUEEN'S  CRAGS 363 

BLOODYBUSH  EDGE 377 

HOOPS 393 

BATTLE 

BEFORE  ACTION 405 

BREAKFAST 406 

THE  BAYONET 407 

THE  QUESTION 408 

THE  RETURN 409 

SALVAGE-. ...  • .  410 

DEAF 411 

MAD ..„     .     .  412 

RAINING *     .  - 413 

SPORT .     . 414 

THE  FEAR 415 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IN  THE  AMBULANCE 416 

HILL-BORN 417 

THE  FATHER 418 

THE  REEK 419 

NIGHTMARE '. 420 

COMRADES 421 

THE  LARK 422 

THE   Vow 423 

MANGEL-WURZELS 424 

His  FATHER 425 

HIT 426 

BACK 427 

His  MATE 428 

THE  DANCERS 429 

THE  JOKE 430 

CHERRIES 431 

THE    HOUSEWIFE 432 

VICTORY 433 

THE  MESSAGES 434 

THE    ORIENT 435 

FRIENDS 

RUPERT    BROOKE 441 

WILLIAM  DENIS  BROWNE 443 

TENANTS 444 

SEA-CHANGE 445 

GOLD .  446 

THE  OLD  BED 447 

TREES 448 

OBLIVION 449 

COLOUR 450 

NIGHT 452 

THE  ORPHANS 453 

? 454 

THE  PESSIMIST 455 

THE    SWEET-TOOTH 456 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

GIRL'S  SONG 457 

THE  ICE-CART  .     .     . 458 

To   E.   M 459 

MARRIAGE 460 

ROSES 461 

FOR   G 462 

HOME ' 463 

LIVELIHOOD 

THE  OLD  NAIL-SHOP 469 

THE  SHAFT 471 

IN   THE    ORCHESTRA 476 

THE  SWING 479 

THE  DROVE-ROAD 482 

THE    ROCKLIGHT 487 

THE   PLOUGH 492 

THE   OLD    PIPER 495 

THE  NEWS 499 

DAFFODILS 506 

BETWEEN  THE  LINES 509 

STRAWBERRIES 514 

THE  BLAST-FURNACE 517 

IN  THE  MEADOW 521 

PARTNERS 524 

THE    ELM 529 

THE   DOCTOR 532 

THE  LAMP 536 

THE  PLATELAYER 542 

MAKESHIFTS 545 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

(1904) 


So  long  had  I  travelled  the  lonely  road, 

Though,  now  and  again,  a  wayfaring  friend 

Walked  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  lightened  the  load, 

I  often  would  think  to  myself  as  I  strode, 

No  comrade  will  journey  with  you  to  the  end. 

And  it  seemed  to  me,  as  the  days  went  past, 
And  I  gossiped  with  cronies,  or  brooded  alone, 
By  wayside  fires,  that  my  fortune  was  cast 
To  sojourn  by  other  men's  hearths  to  the  last, 
And  never  to  come  to  my  own  hearthstone. 

The  lonely  road  no  longer  I  roam. 
We  met,  and  were  one  in  the  heart's  desire. 
Together  we  came  through  the  wintry  gloam 
To  the  little  old  house  by  the  cross-ways,  home; 
And  crossed  the  threshold,  and  kindled  the  fire. 


POEMS 
AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

He  thought  to  see  me  tremble 
And  totter  as  an  oar-snapt  reed, 
When  he  spake  death  to  me  — 
My  courage,  toppled  in  the  dust, 
Even  as  the  head  of  cactus 
The  camel-keeper  slashes 
That  his  beasts  may  browse,  unscathed, 
The  succulent,  wounded  green. 
He  thought  to  have  me,  broken, 
And  grovelling  at  his  feet; 
Mouthing  and  mumbling  to  his  sandal-ties, 
In  stammering  dread  of  death  — 
Ay!  even  as  a  king, 
Who  having  from  death's  hand 
Received  his  crown  and  kingdom, 
For  ever  treads  in  terror  of  the  hour 
When  death  shall  jog  his  elbow, 
Twitch  the  purple  from  his  shoulders, 
And  reclaim  the  borrowed  crown. 
But,  little  need  have  I  to  fear 
The  crouching,  lean  camp-follower, 
Unto  whose  ever-gaping  maw, 
Day  after  day,  I  flung 
The  spoils  of  bow  and  arrow, 
Ere  I  was  taken  captive  — 
I,  who  have  often,  at  my  mother's  breast, 
Awakened  in  the  night-time, 
To  see  death  leering  on  me  from  the  cave-mouth, 
A  gaunt  and  slinking  shape 
That  snuffed  the  dying  embers, 
Blotting  out  the  friendly  stars  — 
I,  who,  a  scarce-weaned  boy, 
Have  toddled,  gay  and  fearless, 
3 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

Down  the  narrow  jungle-track, 

Through  bodeful  forest-darkness,  panther-eyed 

And  have  felt  cold  snakes  uncoiling 

And  gliding  'neath  my  naked  sole, 

From  clammy  slumber  startled; 

While,  with  sharp  snap  and  crackle, 

Beast-trodden  branches  strained  behind  me, 

My  father's  hand  scarce  snatching  me 

Before  the  spring  of  crouching  death! 

But,  naught  of  this  the  King  could  know. 

He  only  knew  that,  on  that  far-off  morning, 

When  first  I  came  before  him,  captive, 

Among  my  captive  brothers, 

And,  as  he  lightly  held,  in  idle  fingers, 

Above  my  unbowed  head, 

In  equal  poise 

Death's  freedom 

Or  the  servitude  of  life, 

I  clutched  at  life: 

And  cared  but  little  that  his  lips 

Should  curl,  to  see  me,  broken, 

A  slave  among  his  slaves. 

Yet,  never  slave  of  his  was  I ; 

Nor  did  I  take  my  new  life  from  his  nod  — 

I  ...  I  who  could  have  torn 

The  proud  life  out  of  him, 

Before  his  guards  could  stay  me  ... 

Had  she  not  sat  beside  him  on  her  throne. 

And  he,  who  knew  not  then, 

Nor  ever,  till  to-day, 

Has  known  me  aught  but  slave, 

Remembering  that  time, 

Spake  doom  of  death  to  me, 

Idly,  as  to  a  slave: 

And  I  await  the  end  of  night, 

And  dawn  of  death, 

Even  as  a  slave  awaits  .  .  . 

Nay !  as  the  unvanquished  veteran 

Awaits  the  hour  of  victory. 

In  silence,  wheels  the  night, 
Star-marshalled,  over  dreaming  Babylon; 
And  none  in  all  the  sleeping  city  stirs, 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

Save  the  cloaked  sentries  on  the  outer  walls 

Who  tread  out  patience  'twixt  the  gates  of  brass, 

Numb  with  scarce-baffled  slumber, 

Or,  maybe,  some  unsleeping  priest  of  Bel, 

A  lonely  warder  of  eternity, 

Who  watches  on  the  temple's  seventh  stage, 

With  the  unslumbering  gods. 

Yet,  may  not  she,  the  Queen, 

Whose  beauty,  slaying  my  body, 

Brings  my  soul  to  immortal  birth, 

Although  she  does  not  know 

Of  my  last  vigil  on  the  peak  of  life  — 

Yet,  may  not  she  awaken,  troubled 

By  strange,  bewildering  dreams, 

With  heart  a  little  fearful  of  the  dawn 

Of  day,  yet  unrevealed? 

There  is  no  sound  at  all, 

Save  only  the  cool  plashing 

Of  fountains  in  the  courtyard 

Without  my  lonely  cell : 

For  fate  has  granted  to  me 

This  last,  least  consolation  of  sweet  sound: 

Though  in  the  plains  I  perish, 

I  shall  hear  the  noise  of  waters, 

The  noise  of  running  waters, 

As  I  die. 

My  earliest  lullaby  shall  sing 

My  heart  again  to  slumber. 

And,  even  now,  I  hear 

Stream-voices,  long-forgotten,  calling  me 

Back  to  the  hills  of  home; 

And,  dreaming,  I  remember 

The  little  yellow  brooks 

That  ever,  day  and  night. 

Gush  down  the  mountains  singing, 

Singing  by  the  caves: 

And  hearkening  unto  them, 

Once  more  a  tiny  baby, 

A  wee  brown  fist  I  dabble 

In  the  foaming  cool, 

Frothing  round  my  wrist, 

Spurting  up  my  arm, 

Spraying  my  warm  face; 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

And  then  again  I  chuckle, 
As  I  see  an  empty  gourd, 
Fallen  in  the  swirling  waters, 
Bobbing  on  the  tawny  eddies, 
Swiftly  out  of  sight. 

And  yet  most  clearly  to  remembrance  comes 

That  far-off  night,  in  early  Spring, 

When,  loud  with  melted  snow  from  Northern  peaks, 

The  torrent  roared  and  fretted; 

While,  couched  within  the  cavern, 

The  clamour  kept  me  wakeful; 

And,  even  when  I  slept, 

Tumbled,  tumultuous,  through  my  dreams, 

And  seemed  to  surge  about  me, 

As  the  brawl  of  armed  men. 

And  once  I  sprang  from  slumber, 

Hot  and  startled, 

Dreaming  that  I  felt 

A  warm  breath  on  my  cheek, 

As  if  a  jackal  nuzzled  me; 

Or  some  dread,  slinking  foe 

Made  certain  of  my  sleeping 

Before  he  plunged  the  steel. 

But  nothing  stirred  within  the  glimmering  cavern, 

Where,  all  around  me,  lay  my  sleeping  kindred; 

And,  when  I  stole  without,  with  noiseless  footsteps, 

To  rouse  the  smouldering  watchfire  into  flame, 

And  cast  fresh,  crackling  brushwood  on  the  blaze, 

I  caught  no  glint  of  arms  betwixt  the  branches, 

Nor  any  sound  or  rumour,  save 

The  choral  noise  of  cold  hill-waters, 

Cold  hill-waters  singing, 

Singing  to  the  stars. 

And  so  I  turned  me  from  the  brooding  night; 

And,  couched  again  upon  the  leopard-skins, 

I  slept,  till  dawn,  in  dream-untroubled  sleep. 

I  woke  to  see  the  cold  sky  kindling  red, 

Beyond  the  mounded  ash  of  the  spent  fire ; 

And  lay,  a  moment,  watching 

The  pearly  light,  caught,  trembling, 

In  dewy-beaded  spiders'  webs 

About  the  cave-mouth  woven. 

Then  I  arose ; 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

And  left  my  kindred,  slumbering  — 

My  mother,  by  my  father, 

And,  at  her  breast,  her  youngest  babe, 

With  dimpled  fingers  clutching  at  her  bosom; 

And,  all  around  them,  lying 

Their  sons  and  daughters,  beautiful  in  sleep, 

With  parted  lips, 

And  easy  limbs  outstretched 

Along  the  tumbled  bedskins: 

And  while  they  slumbered  yet  in  shades  of  night, 

I  sprang  out  naked 

Into  eager  dawn. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  scaled  the  eastern  ridge: 

And  still  the  vales  were. hidden  from  my  eyes 

By  snowy  wreaths  of  swathing  mist: 

But,  high  upon  a  scar 

That  jutted  sheer  and  stark, 

In  cold  grey  light, 

There  stood  an  antelope, 

With  lifted  muzzle  snuffing  the  fresh  day; 

When  scenting  me  afar, 

He  plunged  into  the  mist 

With  one  quick,  startled  bound : 

And,  from  the  smoking  vapour, 

Arose  a  gentle  pattering, 

As,  down  the  rocky  trail, 

The  unseen  herd  went  trotting 

Upon  their  leader's  heels. 

And  from  the  clear  horizon 

The  exultant  sun  sprang  god-like: 

And  on  a  little  mound  I  stood, 

With  eager  arms  outstretched, 

That,  over  my  cold  body, 

The  first  warm  golden  beams 

Of  his  life-giving  light  might  fall. 

And  thus,  awhile,  I  stood, 

In  radiant  adoration  tranced, 

Until  I  caught  the  call  of  waters; 

And,  running  downward  to  the  stream, 

That  plunged  into  a  darkling  pool, 

Where,  in  the  rock  was  scooped  a  wide,  deep  basin ; 

Upon  the  glassy  brink, 

A  moment,  I  hung,  shivering, 

And  gazing  down  through  deeps  of  lucent  shadow; 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

And  then  I  leapt  headlong, 

And  felt  the  cloven  waters 

Closing,  icy-cold,  above  me, 

And,  again,  with  sobbing  breath, 

Battled  to  the  light  and  air: 

And  I  ran  into  the  sunshine, 

Shaking  from  my  tingling  limbs 

Showers  of  scintillating  drops 

Over  radiant,  dewy  beds 

Of  the  snowy  cyclamen, 

And  dark-red  anemone, 

Till  my  tawny  body  glowed 

With  warm,  ruddy,  pulsing  life. 

And  then  again  I  sought  the  stream, 

And  plunged;  and  now,  more  boldly, 

I  crossed  the  pool,  with  easy -stroke; 

And  climbed  the  further  crag; 

And,  turning,  plunged  again. 

And  so,  I  dived  and  swam, 

Till  pangs  of  hunger  pricked 

My  idle  fancy  homeward: 

And  eagerly  I  climbed  the  hill; 

When,  not  a  sling's  throw  from  the  cavern, 

Stooping  to  pluck  a  red  anemone, 

To  prank  the  wet,  black  tangle  of  my  hair, 

I  heard  a  shout; 

And  looking  up, 

I  saw  strange  men 

With  lifted  spears 

Bear  down  on  me: 

And  as  I  turned, 

A  javelin  sang 

Above  my  shrinking  shoulder, 

And  bit  the  ground  before  me. 

But,  swift  as  light  I  sped, 

Until  I  reached  the  pool, 

And  leapt  therein: 

And  he  who  pressed  most  hotly  on  my  heels, 

Fell  stumbling  after. 

Still  I  never  slackened, 

Although  I  heard  a  floundering  splash, 

And  then  the  laughter  of  his  comrades: 

And,  as  I  swam  for  life, 

Betwixt  my  thrusting  heels, 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

Another  spear  that  clove  the  crystal  waters 

Glanced  underneath  my  body, 

And  in  the  stream-bed  quivered  bolt  upright, 

Caught  in  a  cleft  of  rock. 

With  frantic  arm  I  struck 

Straight  as  a  snake  across  the  pool, 

And  climbed  the  further  bank; 

And  plunging  through  deep  brake, 

Ran  wildly  onward, 

Startling  as  I  went 

A  browsing  herd  of  antelope, 

That,  bounding,  fled  before  me  down  the  valley: 

And  after  them  I  raced, 

As  though  the  hunter, 

Not  the  hunted, 

Until  the  chase  sang  in  my  blood, 

And  braced  my  straining  thews. 

I  knew  not  if  men  followed, 

Yet,  on  I  sped,  impetuously, 

As  speeds  the  fleet-foot  onaga, 

That  breasts  the  windy  morning, 

With  lifted  head,  and  nostrils  wide, 

Exultant  in  his  youth. 

So,  on  and  ever  on, 

Scarce  knowing  why  I  ran  — 

Enough  for  me  to  feel 

Earth  beaten  back  behind  my  heels, 

And  hear  the  loud  air  singing 

The  blood-song  in  my  ears: 

Till,  stumbling  headlong  over 

An  unseen,  fallen  branch, 

I  rolled  in  a  deep  bed  of  withered  leaves; 

And  lay,  full-length  in  shuddering  ecstasy 

Of  hot,  tumultuous  blood  that  rioted 

Through  every  throbbing  vein. 

But  when  again,  I  breathed  more  easily, 

And  my  wild,  fluttering  heart  kept  slower  beat, 

Hot-foot,  my  thoughts  ran,  wondering,  backward: 

And  I  arose  and  followed  them 

With  swift  and  stealthy  pace, 

Until  I  reached  the  stream. 

Along  the  bank  I  stole  with  wary  step, 

Until  I  came  to  where  the  waters 

Narrowed,  raging  through  a  gorge, 


io  AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

Nigh  the  threshold  of  my  home: 

And  across  the  thunderous  flood, 

From  crag  to  crag  I  leapt: 

And  then  I  climbed  a  cedar, 

From  whose  close  ambush  I  could  watch 

Who  came  or  went  about  the  cavern-mouth. 

I  lay  along  a  level  branch:- 

And,  through  the  thick,  dark  screen, 

I  peered  with  eager  eyes: 

But  no  one  crossed  my  sight. 

The  whole  land  lay  before  me,  drowsing 

In  deepest  noonday  slumber: 

No  twig  stirred  in  the  breathless  blaze ; 

And  underneath  the  boughs  no  serpent  rustled: 

And,  in  the  earth  and  air, 

Naught  waked,  save  one  lone  eagle,  nigh  the  sun, 

With  wings,  unbaffled,  beating 

Up  the  blue,  unclouded  heavens. 

A  dreamless,  suave  security 

Seemed  brooding  o'er  the  valley's  golden  slumber, 

Whence  rang  or  flashed  no  hint  of  lurking  peril. 

I  dropped  to  earth, 

And  crouching  low, 

I  stole  yet  nearer 

Through  the  brake: 

Till,  drawing  nigh  the  cavern-mouth, 

I  heard  the  sound  of  half-hushed  sobbing: 

And  then  I  saw,  within  the  gloom, 

My  mother  and  my  sisters  clustering  round 

My  father's  body,  lying  stark  and  dead, 

A  spear-wound  in  his  breast. 

And  as  I  crept  to  them,  they  did  not  hear  me, 

Nor  ever  lift  their  heads; 

But,  shuddering,  crouched  together, 

With  drooping  breasts  half-hid  in  falling  hair, 

By  that  familiar  form 

In  such  strange  slumber  bound. 

Only  the  baby,  on  her  shoulder  slung, 

Saw  me,  and  crowed  me  greeting, 

As  I  stooped  down  to  touch  my  weeping  mother, 

Who,  turning  suddenly, 

With  wild  tear-fevered  eyes; 

Arose  with  whispered  warning; 

But,  even  then,  too  late. 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  11 

Already,  from  behind, 

Around  my  throat 

An  arm  was  flung; 

And  heavily  I  fell: 

Yet,  with  a  desperate  wrench, 

I  slipped  the  clutch  of  my  assailant: 

And  picking  up  a  slingstone  that  lay  handy, 

I  crashed  it  through  his  helm; 

And  dead  he  dropped. 

And  now  upon  me  all  his  fellows  thronged, 

Like  hounds  about  an  antelope; 

And  gripped  my  naked  limbs, 

And  dragged  me  down, 

A  struggling  beast,  among  them: 

And  desperately  I  fought, 

As  fights  the  boar  at  bay, 

When  all  the  yelling  pack, 

With  lathered  lips,  and  white  teeth  gnashing, 

Is  closing  in  upon  him, 

And  in  his  quivering  flank,  and  gasping  throat, 

He  feels  the  fangs  of  death: 

Till,  overcome  at  last, 

They  bound  me  hand  and  foot, 

With  knotted,  leathern  thongs; 

And  dragged  me  out  to  where,  beneath  the  trees, 

Trussed  in  like  manner,  with  defiant  eyes, 

My  brothers  lay,  already,  side  by  side. 

They  laid  me  in  the  shade; 

And  flicked  my  wincing  spirit 

With  laughter  and  light  words: 

"  Now  is  the  roe-buck  taken !  " 

Then  another, 

On  whose  dark,  sullen  face  there  burned  a  livid  weal: 

"  A  buck  in  flight's  a  panther  brought  to  bay!  " 

And  then  his  fellow: 

"  True  enough !  and  yet, 

For  such  young  thews  they  give  good  gold  — 

They  give  good  gold  in  Babylon !  " 

And,  laughing  thus,  they  left  us, 

To  lie  through  hours  of  aching  silence, 

Until,  at  length,  the  cool  of  evening  fell; 

When  they  returned  from  slumber; 

And  loosed  the  ankle-cords  that  we  might  stand ; 

And  bade  our  mother  feed  us; 


12  AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

And  she,  with  tender  fingers,  held 

The  milk-bowl  to  our  parching  lips; 

And  thrust  dried  dates  betwixt  our  teeth; 

And  wept,  to  see  us  standing  there, 

With  helpless  hands,  before  her. 

Then,  bringing  out  their  mules,  they  saddled  them; 

And  tied  us  to  the  girths  on  either  hand. 

They  drove  my  weeping  sisters  from  the  cavern ; 

And  sought  to  tear  my  mother  from  her  home ; 

But  she  escaped  them ; 

And  they  let  her  bide 

Amid  the  ruins  of  her  life, 

Whose  light  had  dropped,  so  suddenly, 

From  out  the  highest  heavens: 

And,  when  I  turned  to  look  on  her, 

And  win  from  her  a  last  farewell, 

I  saw  her,  sitting  desolate  betwixt 

Her  silent  husband  and  her  wailing  babe, 

With  still,  strange  eyes, 

That  stared  upon  the  dead,  unseeing, 

While  her  own  children  went  from  her, 

Scarce  knowing  that  they  left  her,  nevermore 

To  look  upon  her  face. 

Thus,  we  set  out,  as  over 

The  darkening,  Southern  crags 

The -new  moon's  keen,  curved  blade  was  thrust: 

My  sisters  trooping  on  before  us, 

Like  a  drove  of  young  gazelles, 

Which,  in  the  dead  of  night, 

With  pards  in  leash,  and  torches  flaring, 

The  hunters  have  encompassed. 

They  moved  with  timid  steps, 

And  little  runs; 

Stumbling,  with  stifled  cries; 

And  starting,  panic-shot, 

From  every  lurking  shadow  — 

Behind  them,  terror's  lifted  lash: 

Before  them,  ever  crouching, 

The  horror  of  the  unknown  night  — 

While,  as  they  moved  before  us, 

The  moonlight  shivered  off  their  shrinking  shoulders 

And  naked,  glancing  limbs, 

In  shimmering,  strange  beauty. 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  13 

And  closely  on  their  heels, 

I,  with  my  brothers,  foremost  in  the  file,    . 

Marched,  tethered  'twixt  the  plodding  beasts, 

Whose  stolid  riders  sat, 

Each  with  his  javelin  on  the  pummel  couched, 

In  watchful  silence,  with  dark  eyes  alert. 

And  once,  nigh  driven  crazy 

By  the  tugging  of  the  thongs, 

I  sprang  into  the  air, 

As  down  a  rocky  steep  we  scrambled ; 

And  strove  to  burst  the  galling  bonds, 

Or  hurl  my  guards  on  one  another  ; 

But,  all  too  sure  of  foot,  the  beasts, 

And  too  securely  girths  and  cords 

Held  me,  and  I  stumbled. 

Instantly  a  thong 

Struck  my  wincing  shoulders, 

Blow  on  thudding  blow. 

I  bit  my  lips ;  and  strode  on  silently ; 

Nor  fought  again  for  freedom. 

So  on  we  journeyed  through  the  night, 

And  down  familiar  mountain-tracks, 

Through  deep,  dark  forest, 

Ever  down  and  down ; 

Fording  the  streams,  whose  moon-bright  waters  flowed, 

In  eddies  of  delicious,  aching  cool, 

About  our  weary  thighs. 

And,  once,  when  in  mid-torrent, 

That  swirled,  girth-high  about  the  plunging  beasts, 

A  startled  otter,  glancing 

Before  their  very  hoofs, 

Affrighted  them;  and,  rearing, 

With  blind  and  desperate  floundering, 

They  nearly  dragged  us  down  to  death: 

And,  ere  we  righted, 

With  a  fearful  cry, 

My  eldest  sister  from  the  bevy  broke; 

And  struck  down-stream 

With  wild  arm  lashing  desperately, 

Until  the  current  caught  her; 

And  she  sank,  to  rise  no  more. 

And  on  again  we  travelled, 

Down  through  the  darkling  woodlands: 

And  once  I  saw  green,  burning  eyes, 


i4  AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

Where,  on  a  low-hung  bough, 

A  night-black  panther  crouched, 

As  though  to  pounce  upon  my  sisters; 

But,  the  sudden  crack  of  whips, 

Startling  him,  he  snarled ; 

And  turned  with  lashing  tail, 

Crashing  through  dense  brushwood. 

When,  once,  again  we  came  unto  a  clearing, 

The  night  was  near  its  noon : 

And  all  the  vales  that  lay  before  us 

Were  filled  with  moving,  moonlit  mists, 

That  seemed  phantasmal  waters 

Of  that  enchanted  world, 

Where  we,  in  dreams,  sail  over  still  lagoons, 

Throughout  eternal  night, 

And  under  unknown  stars. 

Still,  on  we  fared,  unresting, 

Until  the  low  moon  paled  ; 

When,  halting  on  a  mountain-spur, 

We  first  looked  down  on  Babylon, 

Far  in  the  dreaming  West,  » 

A  cluster  of  dim  towers, 

Scarce  visible  to  wearied  eyes. 

We  camped  within  a  sheltering  cedar-grove ; 

And  all  the  day,  beneath  the  level  boughs, 

Upon  the  agelong-bedded  needles  lay, 

Half-slumbering,  with  fleeting,  fretful  dreams 

That  could  not  quite  forget  the  chafing  cords, 

That  held  our  arms  in  aching  numbness: 

But,  ere  the  noon,  in  sounder  sleep  I  sank, 

Dreaming  I  floated  on  a  still,  deep  pool, 

Beneath  dark,  overhanging  branches; 

And  seemed  to  feel  upon  my  cheek 

The  cool  caress  of  waters  ; 

While,  far  above  me,  through  the  night  of  trees, 

Noon  glimmered  faintly  as  the  glint  of  stars. 

As  thus  I  lay,  in  indolent  ecstasy, 

O'er  me,  suddenly,  the  waters 

Curved,  and  I  was  dragged, 

Down  and  down, 

Through  gurgling  deeps 

Of  swirling,  drowning  darkness.  .  .  . 

When  I  awoke  in  terror; 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  15 

And  strove  to  sit  upright; 

But,  tautly,  with  a  jerk, 

The  thongs  that  held  me  to  my  brothers, 

Dragged  me  back  to  earth. 

Awhile  I  lay,  with  staring  eyes,  awake, 

Watching  a  big,  grey  spider,  crouched  o'erhead, 

In  ambush  'neath  a  twig,  beside  her  web, 

Oft  sallying  out,  to  bind  yet  more  securely, 

The  half-entangled  flies. 

And  then,  once  more,  I  slumbered; 

And  dreamed  a  face  leant  over  me, 

More  fair  than  any  face 

My  waking  eyes  had  ever  looked  upon. 

Its  beauty  burned  above  me, 

Not  dusky  like  my  sisters'  faces, 

But  pale  as  the  wan  moon, 

Reflected  in  a  flood 

Of  darkly  flowing  waters, 

Or  as  the  creaming  froth, 

That,  born  amid  the  thunder  of  the  fall, 

Floats  on  the  river's  bosom  in  the  sunshine, 

Bubble  after  bubble, 

Perishing  in  air. 

So,  a  moment,  over  me, 

With  frail  and  fleeting  glimmer 

Of  strange  elusive,  evanescent  light, 

The  holy  vision  hovered. 

And  yet,  whenever,  with  a  fervent  longing, 

I  sought  to  look  into  the  darkling  eyes, 

The  face  would  fade  from  me, 

As  foam  caught  in  an  eddy: 

Until,  at  last,  I  wakened, 

And,  wondering,  saw  a  pale  star  gleaming 

Betwixt  the  cedar-branches. 

And  soon  our  captors  stirred: 

And  we  arose,  to  see 

The  walls  and  towers  of  Babylon,  dark 

Against  the  clear  rose  of  the  afterglow, 

Already  in  the  surge  of  shadows  caught, 

As  night,  beneath  us,  slowly  Westward  swept, 

Flooding  the  dreaming  plain  that  lay  before  us, 

Vast,  limitless,  bewildering, 

And  strange  to  mountain-eyes. 

As  down  the  slope  we  went, 


16  AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

And  when,  at  last,  we  left  behind 

The  hills  and  singing  waters, 

A  vague,  oppressive  fear 

Of  those  dim,  silent  leagues  of  level  land, 

Fell  on  me;  and  I  almost  seemed 

To  bear  upon  my  shoulders 

The  vaster  dome  of  overwhelming  night; 

And,  trembling  like  a  child, 

I  looked  askance  at  my  two  captors, 

As  they  rode  on  in  heedless  silence, 

Their  swarthy  faces  sharp 

Against  the  lucent  sky. 

And  then,  once  more, 

The  old,  familiar  watchfires  of  the  stars 

Brought  courage  to  my  bosom ; 

And  the  young  moon's  brilliant  horn 

Was  exalted  in  the  sky: 

And  soon,  the  glooming  wilderness 

Awoke  with  glittering  waters, 

As  a  friendly  wind  sang  unto  me 

Among  the  swaying  reeds: 

While,  cloud  on  cloud, 

The  snowy  flocks  of  pelican 

Before  our  coming  rose; 

And,  as  they  swerved  to  Southward, 

The  moonlight  shivered  off  their  flashing  pinions. 

So,  on  we  marched,  till  dawn,  across  the  plain; 

And,  on  and  on, 

Beneath  the  waxing  moon, 

Each  night  we  travelled  Westward; 

Until,  at  last,  we  halted 

By  the  broad  dull-gleaming  flood 

Of  mighty,  roaring  Tigris; 

And  aroused  from  midnight  slumber 

The  surly,  grumbling  ferrymen, 

And  crossed  the  swollen  waters 

Upon  the  great,  skin  rafts: 

Then  on  again  we  fared, 

Until  the  far,  dim  towers  soared  in  the  dawnlight; 

And  we  encamped  beside  a  stream, 

Beneath  dry,  rustling  palms. 

And  heavily  I  slumbered: 

And  only  wakened  once,  at  noon, 

When,  lifting  up  my  head, 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  17 

I  saw  the  towers  of  Babylon  burning  blue, 

Far  off,  in  the  blind  heat: 

And  slept  again,  till  sunset, 

When  we  took  our  Westward  course 

Along  the  low  bank  of  a  broad  canal, 

That  glimmered  wanly  'neath  a  moonless  sky. 

Higher,  and  higher  still, 

As  we  drew  slowly  nearer, 

Arose  the  vasty  walls  and  serried  towers, 

That  seemed  to  thrust  among  the  stars, 

And  on  embattled  summits  bear  the  night, 

Unbowed  beneath  their  burden, 

As  easily  as,  with  unruffled  brows, 

And  limber,  upright  bodies, 

The  village-daughters  carry 

At  eve  the  brimming  pitchers, 

Poised  upon  their  heads. 

And  when,  above  us,  the  wide-looming  walls 

Shut  out  the  Western  stars; 

Beneath  their  shade,  at  midnight,  we  encamped, 

To  await  till  dawn  should  open 

The  city  gates  for  us. 

That  night  we  did  not  sleep, 

But,  crouched  upon  the  ground, 

We  watched  the  moon  rise  over  Babylon, 

Till,  far  behind  us,  o'er  the  glittering  waste, 

Was  flung  the  wall's  huge  shadow, 

And  the  moving  shades  of  sentries, 

Who,  unseen  above  our  heads, 

Paced  through  the  night  incessantly. 

Thus  long  we  sat,  hushed  with  awed  expectation, 

And  gazing  o'er  the  plain  that  we  had  travelled, 

As,  gradually,  the  climbing  moon, 

Escaping  from  the  clustering  towers, 

Revealed  far-gleaming  waters, 

And  the  sharp,  shrill  cry  of  owls, 

Sweeping  by  on  noiseless  plumes, 

Assailed  the  vasty  silence, 

Shivering  off  like  darts 

From  some  impenetrable  shield. 

And,  as  we  waited, 

Sometimes,  fearfully, 

I  gazed  up  those  stupendous,  soaring  walls 

Of  that  great,  slumbering  city,  wondering 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

What  doom  behind  the  bastioned  ramparts  slept, 

What  destiny,  beneath  the  brooding  night, 

Awaited  me  beyond  the  brazen  gates. 

But,  naught  the  blind,  indifferent  stars  revealed, 

Though  towards  the  long  night's  ending, 

Half-dazed  with  gazing  up  that  aching  height, 

A  drowsiness  fell  over  me, 

And  in  a  restless  waking-trance  I  lay, 

Dreaming  that  Life  and  Death  before  me  stood. 

And,  as  each  thrust  towards  me  a  shrouded  cup, 

Implacable  silence  bade  me  choose  and  drink. 

But,  as  I  stretched  a  blind,  uncertain  hand 

To  take  the  cup  of  death, 

I  wakened,  and  dawn  trembled, 

At  last,  beyond  the  Eastern  hills, 

And,  star  by  star,  night  failed ; 

And  eagerly  the  sun  leapt  up  the  sky, 

And,  as  his  flashing  rays 

Smote  kindling  towers  and  flaming  gates  of  brass, 

Across  the  reedy  moat 

A  clattering  drawbridge  fell, 

And  wide  the  glittering  portals  slowly  swung: 

And  there  came  streaming  out  in  slow  procession 

A  sleepy  caravan  of  slouching  camels, 

Groaning  and  grumbling  as  they  strode  along 

Beneath  their  mountainous  burdens, 

Upon  whose  swaying  summits, 

Impassively,  the  blue-robed  merchants  sat. 

They  passed  us  slowly  by, 

And  then  we  took  the  bridge, 

And,  while  our  captors  parleyed  with  the  guards, 

Who  stood,  on  either  hand, 

With  naked  swords, 

I  turned  my  head, 

And  saw  for  the  last  time,  far  Eastward, 

The  cold,  snow-brilliant  peaks, 

Beyond  my  dim,  blue,  native  hills. 

And,  as  I  looked,  my  thoughts  flew  homeward, 

And  I,  one  dreaming  moment, 

Stood  by  my  mourning  mother  in  the  cavern 

Of  desolation,  looking  on  the  dead. 

And  then,  between  the  brazen  gate-posts, 

And  underneath  the  brazen  lintel, 

At  last  we  entered  Babylon. 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  19 

Before  us,  yet  another  wall  arose, 

And,  turning  sharply 

Down  a  narrow  way, 

The  living  breath  of  heaven  seemed  shut  from  us 

As  though  beneath  the  beetling  crags 

Of  some  deep  mountain-gorge  — 

By  cliffs  of  wall,  on  either  hand, 

That  soared  up  to  the  narrow  sky, 

Which  with  dim  lustre  lit 

The  shimmering  surface  of  enamelled  brick, 

Whereon,  through  giant  groves, 

Blue-coated  hunters  chased  the  boar, 

Or  'loosed  red-tasselled  falcon 

After  flying  crane. 

But  soon  we  reached  another  gate, 

Sword-guarded,  and  we  entered, 

And  plunged  into  the  traffic 

Of  clamorous  merchantmen, 

Speeding  their  business  ere  the  heat  of  day. 

And  as  we  jostled,  slowly, 

Through  bewildering  bazaars, 

The  porters  and  the  idler  wayfarers 

All  turned  to  look  upon  our  shame, 

With  cold,  unpitying  eyes, 

And  indolent,  gaping  mouths, 

Or  jested  with  our  captors, 

Until  we  left  the  busier  thoroughfares, 

And  walked  through  groves  of  cypress  and  of  ilex, 

Where  not  a  sound  or  rumour  troubled 

The  silence  of  the  dark-plumed  boughs 

And  glimmering  deeps  of  peace, 

Save  only  the  cool  spurt  of  waters 

That,  from  a  myriad  unseen  jets, 

Fretted  the  crystal  airs  of  morning, 

And  fell  in  frolic  showers 

Of  twinkling,  rainbow  drops, 

That  plashed  in  unseen  basins; 

And  through  the  blaze  of  almond-orchards, 

Tremulous  with  blossom 

That  flickered  in  a  rosy,  silken  snow 

Of  falling  petals  over  us, 

And  wreathed  about  our  feet 

In  soft  and  scented  drifts; 

Beneath  pomegranate  trees  in  young,  green  leaf, 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

And  through  vast  gardens,  glowing  with  strange  flowers, 

Such  as  no  April  kindled  into  bloom 

Among  the  valleys  of  my  native  hills. 

We  came  unto  a  court  of  many  fountains, 

Where,  leaping  off  their  jaded  mules, 

Our  captors  loosed  the  thongs  that  held  us, 

But  left  our  wrists  still  bound. 

And  one  with  great  clay  pitchers  came, 

And  over  our  hot  bodies,  travel-stained, 

Poured  out  cool,  cleansing  waters 

In  a  gurgling,  crystal  stream, 

And  flung  coarse  robes  of  indigo 

About  our  naked  shoulders. 

And  here  we  left  behind  us 

The  maidens  and  the  younger  boys, 

And  passing  through  a  gateway, 

Came  out  upon  a  busy  wharf, 

Where,  southward,  midway  through  the  city, 

The  broad  Euphrates  flows, 

His  dark  flood  thronged  with  merchant-dhows, 

And  fishing-boats  of  reed  and  bitumen, 

Piled  high  with  glistering  barbel,  freshly-caught; 

And  foreign  craft,  with  many-coloured  sails, 

And  laden  deep  with  precious  merchandise, 

That,  over  wide,  bewildering  waters, 

Across  the  perilous  world, 

The  adventurous,  dark-bearded  mariners, 

Who  swear  by  unknown  gods  in  alien  tongues, 

Bring  ever  to  the  gates  of  Babylon. 

We  crossed  the  drawbridge,  round  whose  granite  piers 

Swirled  strong,   Spring-swollen  waters, 

Loud  and  tawny, 

And,  through  great  brazen  portals, 

Passed  within  the  palace  gates, 

When  first  I  saw  afar  the  hanging-gardens, 

Arch  on  arch, 

And  tier  on  tier, 

Against  a  glowing  sky. 

Two  strapping  Nubians,  like  young  giants 

Hewn  from  blue-black  marble 

By  some  immortal  hand  in  immemorial  ages, 

Led  us  slowly  onward. 

The  dappled  pard-skins,  slung  across  their  shoulders, 

Scarcely  hid  the  ox-like  thews, 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  21 

Beneath  the  dark  skin  rippling, 

As  they  strode  along  before  us. 

Through  courts  of  alabaster, 

And  painted  corridors, 

And  chambers  fair  with  flowery  tapestries 

They  led  us,  wondering,  till  at  last  we  came 

Into  a  vast,  dim  hall  of  glimmering  gold, 

The  end  of  all  our  journeying. 

And,  as  we  halted  on  the  threshold, 

My  eyes  could  see  but  little  for  a  moment, 

In  the  dusky,  heavy  air, 

Through  the  ceaseless  cloud  of  incense, 

Rising  from  the  smouldering  braziers 

To  the  gold,  grey-clouded  dome, 

Tingling  strangely  in  my  nostrils, 

As  I  came  from  morning  airs ; 

Then  slowly  filling  them  with  drowsy  fume 

When,  looking  up  with  half-dazed  eyes, 

I  saw  the  King  upon  his  golden  throne: 

And  through  my  body 

Raged  rebellious  blood, 

In  baffled  beating 

At  my  corded  wrists, 

As  if  to  burst  the  galling  bonds, 

That  I  might  hurl  that  lean,  swart  face, 

So  idly  turning  towards  us, 

With  thin  curled  lips, 

And  cold,  incurious  eyes, 

To  headlong  death  — 

Yea!  even  though  I  tumbled     , 

The  towers  of  Babylon  round  about  my  head. 

And,  when  our  captors  bowed  their  foreheads  low 

Obsequious  to  the  throne, 

I  stood  upright, 

And  gazed  my  loathing  on  that  listless  form  — 

The  gay,  embroidered  robe, 

The  golden  cap,  that  prankt  the  crisped  locks, 

The  short,  square  beard,  new-oiled  and  barbered  — 

But,  in  a  flash, 

A  heavy  blow 

Fell  on  my  head, 

And  struck  me  to  my  knees 

Before  the  sleek,  indifferent  king. 

And  then,  on  either  hand, 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

With  gripping  palms  upon  my  shoulders  set, 

.The  Nubians  towered  above  me 

Like  mighty  men  of  stone. 

And  savagely  I  struggled, 

Half-stunned,  to  rise  again; 

When,  as  I  vainly  battled 

In  their  unrelenting  clutch, 

My  eyes  lit  for  the  first  time  on  the  Queen, 

Who  sat  upon  the  dais,  by  her  lord 

Half-shadowed,  on  a  throne  of  ivory, 

And  all  the  hate  died  in  me,  as  I  saw 

The  face  that  hovered  over  me  in  dream, 

When  I  had  slept  beneath  the  low-boughed  cedar: 

The  moon-pale  brows,  o'er  which  the  clustered  hair 

Hung  like  the  smoke  of  torches,  ruddy-gold, 

Against  a  canopy  of  peacock  plumes: 

The  deep  brown,  burning  eyes, 

From  which  the  soul  looked  on  me  in  fierce  pity. 

And,  as  I  gazed  on  that  exultant  beauty, 

The  hunter  and  the  slayer  of  men 

Was  slain  within  me  instantly, 

And  I  forgot  the  mountains  and  my  home; 

My  desolate  mother,  and  my  father's  death ; 

My  captive  sisters  .  .  .  and  the  throned  King! 

I  was  as  one,  that  moment, 

New-born  into  the  world 

Full-limbed  and  thewed, 

Yet,  with  the  wondering  heart 

Of  earth-bewildered  childhood. 

And,  unto  me,  it  seemed 

That,  as  the  Queen  looked  down  on  me, 

There  stole  into  her  eyes 

Some  dim  remembrance  of  old  dreams, 

That  in  their  brown  depths  flickered 

With  strange,  elusive  light, 

Like  stars  that  tremble  in  still  forest-pools. 

One  spake  — 

I  scarce  knew  whom,  nor  cared  — 

And  bade  me  choose, 

Before  the  throne, 

Between  a  life  of  slavery, 

Or  merciful,  swift  death  — 

Death,  that  but  a  moment  since, 

I  would  have  dragged,  exulting,  on  me  — 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  23 

And  with  my  eyes  still  set  on  the  Queen's  face, 

I  answered: 

"  I  will  serve  ": 

And  scarcely  heeded  that  my  wrists  were  loosed. 

And,  huddled  in  a  stifling  hut, 

That  night,  among  my  fellows, 

I  could  not  sleep  at  all: 

But  gazed,  wild-eyed,  till  dawn  upon  that  face, 

Which  hovered  o'er  me,  like  the  moon  of  dreams; 

And  seemed  to  draw  the  wandering  tides  of  life 

In  one  vast  wave,  which  ever  strove 

To  climb  the  heavens  wherein  she  moved, 

That  it  might  break  in  triumphing  foam  about  her. 

Not  then,  nor  ever  afterwards, 

Was  I  a  slave,  among  my  fellow-slaves, 

But  one,  who,  with  mean  drudgery, 

And  daily  penance  serves 

Before  a  holy  altar, 

That,  sometimes,  as  he  labours,  his  glad  eyes 

May  catch  a  gleam  of  the  immortal  light 

Within  the  secret  shrine; 

Yea!  and,  maybe,  shall  look,  one  day,  with  trembling, 

On  the  bright-haired,  imperishable  god. 

And,  even  when,  day  after  day, 

I  bore  the  big  reed  baskets,  laden 

With  wet  clay,  digged  beyond  the  Western  moat, 

Although  I  seemed  to  tread, 

As  treads  the  ox  that  turns  the  water-wheel, 

A  blindfold  round  of  servitude, 

My  quenchless  vision  ever  burned  before  me: 

And  when,  in  after  days,  I  fed 

The  roaring  oven-furnaces; 

And  toiled  by  them  through  sweltering  days, 

Though  over  me,  at  times,  would  come 

Great  longing  for  the  hill-tops, 

And  the  noise  of  torrent-waters: 

Or  when,  more  skilled,  I  moulded 

The  damp  clay  into  bricks; 

And  spread  the  colour  and  the  glaze; 

And  in  strength-giving  heat  of  glowing  kilns 

I  baked  them  durable, 

Clean-shaped,  and  meet  for  service: 

My  vision  flamed  yet  brighter; 


24  AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

And  unto  me  it  seemed 

As  if  my  gross  and  useless  clay  were  burned 
In  a  white  ecstasy  of  lustral  fire, 
That,  in  the  fashioning  of  the  house  of  love, 
I  might  serve  perfectly  the  builder's  need. 
Thus,  many  months,  I  laboured; 
Till,  one  day,  at  the  noontide  hour  of  rest, 
I  lay;  and  with  a  sharpened  reed  — 
As  temple-scribes  write  down  the  holy  lore 
On  tablets  of  wet  clay  — 
On  the  moist  earth  beside  me, 
I  limned  a  young  fawn,  cropping 
A  bunch  of  tender,  overhanging  leaves. 
And,  as  I  slowly  drew, 
I  dreamt  a  little  sadly  of  the  days, 
When  I,  too,  roamed,  untethered, 
And  drinking  in,  unquestioning, 
The  sunshine  and  the  air, 
And  all  the  rapture  of  the  earth  that  turns, 
New  every  morning  to  the  wondering  sun, 
Refashioned  in  still  nights  of  starry  dews: 
But  one,  the  while,  unseen  of  me, 
Watched  my  unconscious  hand,  approving: 
And  I  was  set,  next  morning, 
Among  the  craftsmen,  who  so  deftly  limned 
The  hunts  and  battles  for  the  palace  walls. 
And,  happily,  with  them  I  lived 
A  life  of  loving  labour,  for  each  line 
Flowed  from  the  knowledge  of  my  heart: 
I  drew  the  startled  ostrich 
Fleeing  from  the  far-flung  noose: 
The  brindled  lynx;  the  onaga 
In  dewy-plashing  flight; 
The  bristling  boar,  at  bay, 
Crouched  in  a  deadly  ring  of  threatening  spears, 
With  streaming  nostrils,  and  red  eyes  ablaze; 
The  striped  hyaena ;  the  gaunt,  green-eyed  wolf ; 
The  skulking  jackal ;  the  grey,  brush-tailed  fox ; 
The  hunting  leopard  and  the  antelope, 
In  mid-chase  tense, 
With  every  thew  astrain ; 

The  dappled  panther;  the  brown-eyed  gazelle, 
Butting  with  black  horns  through  the  tangled 
brake; 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  25 

The  nimble  hare,  alert,  with  pricked-up  ears; 

The  tiger,  crouched,  with  yellow  eyes  afire; 

The  shaggy  mountain-goat, 

Perched  on  the  utmost  crag, 

Against  the  afterglow  of  lucent  ruby, 

Or,  poised  with  bunching  hoofs 

In  mid-spring  over  a  dark,  yawning  chasm; 

Or  the  black  stallion,  with  his  tameless  troop, 

Fording  a  mountain-river  in  the  dawn. 

And,  sometimes,  as  we  toiled, 

A  terrible  fleeting  rapture 

Would  come  upon  me,  when  the  Queen 

Passed  by  us  with  her  maidens; 

Or  paused,  a  moment,  gazing, 

With  tranced  and  kindling  eyes  upon  our  labours: 

But  never  did  I  dare,  at  any  time, 

To  lift  my  eyes  to  hers, 

And  look,  as  soul  on  soul, 

As  on  the  day  her  beauty  brought  to  birth 

The  strange  new  life  within  me. 

In  silence  she  would  ever  leave  us; 

And  ever  with  her  passing  perished 

The  light  and  colour  of  my  work; 

So  that  my  heart  failed,  daunted  by  that  glimpse 

Of  the  ever-living  beauty. 

And,  sometimes,  I  would  carve  in  ruddy  teak, 

Or  ivory,  from  the  Indian  merchants  bought, 

Or  in  the  rare,  black  basalt,  little  beasts 

To  please  the  idle  fancies  of  the  King; 

Or  model  in  wet  clay,  and  cast  in  bronze, 

Great  bulls  and  lions  for  the  palace-courts; 

Or  carve  him  seals  of  lapis-lazuli, 

Of  jasper,  amethyst  and  serpentine, 

Chalcedony  —  carnelian,  chrysoprase, 

Agate,  sardonyx,  and  chalcedonyx  — 

Green  jade,  and  alabaster; 

Or  cut  in  stones  that  flashed  and  flickered 

Like  a  glancing  kingfisher, 

Or,  in  the  sun-filled  amber, 

The  kite  with  broad  wings  spread, 

Or  little  fluttering  doves  that  pecked 

A  golden  bunch  of  dates: 

And  then  of  these  in  settings  of  fine  gold 

Made  fillets,  rings  and  ear-rings. 


26  AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

Thus,  one  day, 

Dreaming,  as  ever,  of  the  Queen, 

I  wrought  a  golden  serpent  for  her  hair: 

And  when  I  brought  it  to  the  King,  next  morn, 

Where  he  sat  brooding  over  chess, 

He  bade  me  bear  it  to  the  Queen,  myself, 

And  so,  I  went  unto  her,  where  she  sat, 

Among  her  singing  maidens,  at  the  loom, 

Weaving  a  silken  web  of  Tyrian  dye. 

I  laid  the  trinket  at  her  feet,  in  silence: 

And  she  arose,  and  set  it  in  her  hair, 

Whose  living  lustre  far  outshone 

The  cold,  dead  metal  I  had  fashioned, 

As  she  stood  before  me,  dreaming, 

In  her  robe  of  flowing  blue; 

Then  'looked  a  moment  on  me  with  kind  eyes. 

And  though  she  spoke  no  word, 

I  turned,  and  fled,  in  trembling, 

Before  the  light  that  shivered  through  me, 

And  struck  my  soul  with  shuddering  ecstasy: 

And,  still,  through  many  days, 

Although  I  did  not  look  again 

Upon  those  dreaming  eyes, 

Their  visionary  light 

Within  my  soul,  revealed  eternity. 

Thus,  have  the  mortal  years 

Flowed  onward  to  the  perfect  end  — 

This  day  of  days, 

That  never  night  shall  quench, 

Nor  darkness  vanquish: 

And,  at  dawn, 

I  die. 

And  yet,  this  morning,  as  I  slowly  climbed 

The  steep,  ascending  stages 

That  lead  up  to  the  hanging-gardens  — 

Where,  tier  on  tier, 

The  great  brick  arches  bore 

Their  April  wealth  of  blossoms, 

Plumed  with  palm  and  dusky  cypress  — 

I  little  knew  that  I 

Who  came  to  carve  a  garland 

Round  a  fountain's  porphyry  basin, 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  27 

Should  scale  so  soon  the  utmost  peak  of  life. 

Throughout  the  morn  I  toiled, 

Until  an  hour  ere  noon  — 

For  no  one,  save  the  King  and  Queen, 

May  walk  in  those  high  gardens,  after  midday  — 

When,  underneath  a  cypress  shade, 

I  paused,  a  moment,  resting; 

And  looking  down  upon  the  basking  city, 

Beneath  me  slumbering  deeply  — 

Garden  on  garden  glowing,  grove  on  grove, 

Like  some  green  fabric,  shot  with  myriad  hues, 

And  chequered  with  white  clusters  of  flat  roofs, 

Aquiver  in  clear  heat: 

And  then  I  gazed  up  through  the  aching  azure, 

At  the  restless  kites  that  hover 

Ever  over  Babylon: 

And,  as  I  watched  one  broad-winged  bird  that  hung 

Above  the  seven-coloured  pyramid 

Of  Bel's  great  temple, 

With  wide  pinions  spread, 

As  though  it  kept  eternal  vigil  over 

The  golden  image  in  the  golden  shrine, 

I  thought  of  eagles  poised 

Above  the  peaks  of  glittering  snows, 

Beyond  the  Eastern  plains. 

Half-dreaming,  thus,  I  lay, 

Lulled  by  the  tinkling  waters, 

Till,  unawares,  sleep  slowly  overcame  me; 

And  noonday  drifted  by: 

And  still,  I  slept,  unheeding: 

And,  in  my  sleep, 

I  looked  on  Beauty  in  a  quiet  place 

Of  forest  gloom  and  immemorial  dream: 

When,  something  rousing  me  from  slumber, 

With  waking  eyes  that  yet  seemed  dream-enchanted, 

I  looked  upon  the  Queen, 

Where,  in  a  secret  close, 

Set  thickly  round  with  screens  of  yew  and  ilex, 

She  stood  upon  the  dark,  broad  brim 

Of  a  wide  granite  basin,  gazing  down, 

With  dreaming  eyes,  into  the  glooming  cool, 

Unraimented,  save  of  the  flickering  gleam, 

Reflected  from  the  lucent  waters, 

That  flowed  before  her  silently: 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE 

And  slowly,  from  her  feet, 

The  cold  light  rippled  up  her  body,  till, 

Entangled  in  the  meshes  of  her  hair, 

It  flooded  the  calm  rapture  of  her  face: 

When,  dreaming  still,  she  lifted  up  her  eyes, 

Unseeing;  and  I  looked  upon  her  soul, 

Unveiled,  in  naked  immortality, 

Untrammelled  by  the  trappings  of  brief  time, 

And  cloaks  of  circumstance. 

How  long  I  looked  upon  the  perfect  beauty, 

I  cannot  tell  — 

Each  moment,  flowing  to  eternity, 

Bearing  me  further  from  time's  narrow  shores; 

Though,  yet,  a  little  while, 

From  those  unshadowed  deeps  time  sought  to  hold  me. 

Suddenly,  I  felt 

A  ghostly  arrow  pierce  my  life ; 

And  I  leapt  up,  and  turning, 

I  saw  the  King  beside  me, 

With  steely,  glittering  eyes 

Shooting  barbed  anger, 

Though  he  coldly  spake, 

With  evil,  curling  lips: 

"  Slave,  thou  art  dead !  " 

And  yet  I  did  not  quail: 

But,  looking  'twixt  his  brows, 

I  answered:  and  he  blenched  before  my  words: 

"  Nay!     I  have  seen: 

"  And  am  newborn,  a  King!  " 

And  then  his  craven  fingers 

Went  quaking  to  his  wagging  beard, 

As  if  he  felt  my  clutch  upon  his  throat: 

Yet,  though,  with  one  quick  blow, 

I  might  have  hurled  him  down  to  death, 

I  never  stirred: 

And,  eyeing  me,  he  summoned 

The  negro-eunuchs,  who  kept  watch  below: 

But  I,  ere  they  could  spring  up  the  first  stage, 

Went  forth  to  meet  them; 

And  they  bound  my  wrists. 

And  so,  down  from  the  hills,  my  life  has  flowed, 
Until,  at  fullest  flood,  it  meets  the  sea. 


AKRA  THE  SLAVE  29 

With  calm  and  unregretful  heart,  I  wait 

Till  dawn  shall  loose  the  arrow  from  the  bow. 

I,  who,  with  eager,  faltering  hand  have  sought 

To  fashion  a  little  beauty,  in  the  end, 

Have  looked  on  the  perfect  beauty,  and  I  die  — 

Even  as  the  priest,  who,  in  the  heart  of  night, 

Trembling  before  the  thunder-riven  shrine, 

Looks  on  the  face  of  God,  and  perishes. 

I  die  ... 

And  yet,  maybe,  when  earth  lies  heavily 

Upon  the  time-o'ertoppled  towers, 

And  tumbled  walls,  and  broken  gates  of  brass; 

And  the  winds  whisper  one  another: 

"Where,  Oh!  where  is  Babylon?" 

In  the  dim  underworld  of  dreaming  shades, 

My  soul  shall  seek  out  beauty 

And  look,  once  more, 

Upon  the  unveiled  vision  .  .  . 

And  not  die. 

Night  passes:  and  already  in  the  court, 

Amid  the  plash  of  fountains, 

There  sounds  the  pad  of  naked  feet  approaching. 

With  slow,  deliberate  pace, 

As  though  they  trod  out  all  my  perished  years, 

The  Nubians  come,  to  lead  me  out  to  death. 

Slowly  the  great  door  opens ; 

And  clearer  comes  the  call  of  waters; 

Cool  airs  are  on  my  brow  .  .  . 

Lo!  .  .  .  in  the  East,  the  dawn. 

1904. 


STONEFOLDS 

(1906) 


The  ragged  heather-ridge  is  black 
Against  the  sunset's  frosty  rose; 
With  rustling  breath,  down  syke  and  slack, 
The  icy,  eager  north-wind  blows. 

It  shivers  through  my  hair,  and  flicks 
The  blood  into  my  tingling  cheek ; 
And  with  adventurous  urging  pricks 
My  spirit,  that  in  drowsy  reek 

Of  glowing  peats  had  dreamt  too  long, 
Crouched  in  the  cosy  ingle-nook, 
Till  life  seemed  vainer  than  the  song 
The  kettle  sings  upon  the  crook  — 

Till  life  seemed  vainer  than  the  puff 
Of  steam  that  perished  in  hot  air  — 
A  fretful  fume,  a  vapour  stuff 
Of  gusty  passion,  cloudy  care. 

But  as,  once  more,  I  watch  the  stars 
Re-kindle  in  the  glittering  west, 
Beyond  the  fell-top's  naked  scars, 
Life  rouses  in  me  with  new  zest. 

The  immortal  wakens  in  my  blood 
Beneath  the  wind's  relentless  thresh; 
And  universal  life  at  flood 
Breaks  through  the  bonds  of  bone  and  flesh. 

I  scale  the  utmost  peak  of  night, 
The  eternal  breath  upon  my  face ; 
Till,  borne  on  plumes  of  singing  light, 
I  lose  myself  in  starry  space. 


STONEFOLDS 

Persons : 

NICHOLAS  THIRLWALL,  an  old  shepherd. 

RACHEL  THIRLWALL,  his  wife. 

RUTH  THIRLWALL,  his  daughter. 

RALPH  MOORE,  a  young  shepherd,  Nicholas'  nephew. 

Scene:  The  living-room  of  Stone/olds,  a  shepherd's  house  on  the 
fells.  A  door  opens  on  to  the  yard,  another  to  the  back  of 
the  house.  NICHOLAS,  an  infirm,  old  man,  sits  on  the  settle 
by  the  peat-fire  with  his  back  to  the  outer  door.  His  wife, 
RACHEL,  moves  about  putting  things  away  in  a  cupboard, 
tending  the  fire,  etc.  A  clock  in  the  corner  ticks  loudly. 
Storm  rages  without. 

NICHOLAS.     Is  Ralph  there? 

RACHEL.  Nay,  he's  gone  back  to  the  fold. 

NICHOLAS.     If  only  I  might  go  with  him!     It's  strange 
The  year's  lambs  should  be  born,  and  I  not  there. 
The  labouring  ewes  will  miss  my  hand  to-night; 
Though  Ralph's  a  careful  fellow,  he  is  young; 
And  six-and-fifty  lambings  have  I  seen. 
It's  hard,  it's  hard  that  I  sit  crippled  here 
When  there's  so  much  to  do  —  so  much  to  do ! 
That  I,  who  should  be  tending  the  young  lambs, 
As  helpless  as  a  yeanling  crouch  and  shake 
Beside  the  peats,  and  shudder  at  the  night. 

RACHEL.     It's  a  wild  night!     See  how  beneath  the  door 
The  snow  has  silted.     It's  a  perilous  night 
For  young  things  to  be  born.     Hark  to  the  wind ! 

NICHOLAS.     Ay,  it's  the  lambing-storm. 

RACHEL.  I'll  set  a  pan 

Of  milk  upon  the  hob,  for  Ralph  may  bring 
Some  motherless  lamb  to  tend  before  the  fire. 

NICHOLAS.     It's  hard,  it's  hard  that  all  may  help  but  me  — 
33 


34  STONEFOLDS 

While  I  have  seen  so  many  young  things  born, 
So  many  perish  in  my  time.     Worn  out, 
Useless  and  old,  I  sit  before  the  fire 
Warming  my  hands  that  once  were  never  cold, 
And  now  are  never  warm.     I  sit  and  shake 
Like  quaking-grass,  and  cannot  even  rise 
To  shift  my  seat,  or  turn  my  hand  to  aught, 
When  there's  so  much  to  do.    . 

[A  noise  as  of  some  one  knocking  the  snow  off  his  boots 
against  the  threshold.] 

What's  that? 
RACHEL.  It's  Ralph. 

[The  door  opens,  and  Ralph  comes  in,  white  with  snow,  carry- 
ing a  lanthorn,  and  a  new-born  lamb  wrapped  in  his 
plaid.  He  looks  about  him,  as  though  expecting  to  see 
someone  with  NICHOLAS  and  RACHEL;  then,  with  a 
sigh,  he  sets  down  the  lanthorn  on  the  table,  and  carries 
the  lamb  to  the  hearth,  and  lays  it  on  the  rug  before  the 
fire,  while  RACHEL  fills  a  bottle  with  warm  milk.} 

RALPH.     The  old  lame  ewe  is  dead.     I've  brought  her  lamb 
To  lie  before  the  fire ;  but  it  is  weak 
And  like  to  die. 

NICHOLAS.     Had  I  but  tended  her! 

RALPH.     The  ewe  was  old. 

NICHOLAS.  Ay,  ay,  the  ewe  was  old, 
And  so  must  die,  and  none  pay  any  heed ! 
I,  too,  am  old  —  I,  too,  am  growing  old. 

RALPH  [to  RACHEL,  who  is  kneeling  by  the  lamb].     You  keep 

the  yeanling  warm  till  I  come  back, 
I  doubt  that  it  can  live ;  but  I  must  go. 

[Takes  his  lanthorn  and  goes  out] 

RACHEL.     Ralph's  a  good  lad  and  has  a  tender  heart. 

NICHOLAS.     Ay,  he's  a  careful  fellow.     He  should  wed. 
At  his  age  I'd  been  wed  hard  on  a  year. 

RACHEL.     But  Ralph  will  never  wed. 

NICHOLAS.  Why  should  he  not? 

He  is  a  likely  lad.     Why  should  he  not? 

RACHEL.     It's  just  a  year  to-night  since  Ruth  left  home. 

NICHOLAS.     Ruth!     What  of  Ruth?     The  lass  has  made  her 

bed, 
And  she  must  lie  upon  it  now. 


STONEFOLDS  35 

RACHEL.  Poor  Ruth! 

Yet,  Ralph  will  never  wed. 

NICHOLAS.  How  can  you  tell? 

RACHEL.     I  watch  him  as  he  sits  before  the  fire 
Each  night  in  his  own  corner,  with  still  eyes 
That  gaze  and  gaze  into  the  glowing  peat 
Until  they  burn  as  fiercely  as  the  flame 
On  which  they  feed ;  and  sometimes,  suddenly, 
His  fingers  grip  the  settle  till  it  shakes; 
And  when  I  speak  he  heeds  not,  till  the  light 
Has  perished  from  his  eyes,  and,  dull  as  ash, 
They  look  upon  the  crumbling  peats  once  more. 

NICHOLAS.     A  woman's  fancies !     Ralph  is  not  a  boy 
To  peak  and  pine  because  a  silly  wench, 
Who,  if  she'd  had  but  wit,  might  be  his  wife, 
Flits  one  fine  night.     O  Ruth !  to  give  up  Ralph 
For  that  young  wastrel,  Michael!     Ralph  must  wed 
The  sooner  if  he  broods.     A  wife  and  babes 
Will  leave  him  little  time  for  idle  brooding. 
He's  not  the  fool  his  father  was. 

RACHEL.  Poor  Ruth! 

Yet,  Ralph  will  never  wed.     At  other  times, 
I  see  him  sit  and  hearken  all  night  long 
As  though  he  fretted  for  some  well-known  foot  — 
Listening  with  his  whole  body,  like  a  hare  — 
Bolt-upright  on  the  settle;  every  nerve 
Astrain  to  catch  the  never-falling  sound 
Of  home-returning  steps.     Only  last  night 
I  watched  him  till  my  heart  was  sore  for  him. 
He  seemed  to  listen  with  his  very  eyes, 
That  gleamed  like  some  wild  creature's. 

[The  dock  strikes.]     It's  gone  ten. 
Come,  Nicholas,  I  will  help  you  to  your  bed. 

NICHOLAS.     Nay,  nay!     I'll  not  to  bed  to-night.     Why,  lass, 
I  have  not  gone  to  bed  at  lambing-time 
Since  I  could  hold  a  lanthorn!     That  must  be 
Nigh  sixty  years;  and  I'll  not  sleep  to-night. 
Though  I  be  as  much  use  asleep  as  waking 
Since  my  legs  failed  me,  yet  I  could  not  sleep. 
I  can  but  sit  and  think  about  the  lambs 
That  in  the  fold  are  opening  wondering  eyes, 
Poor  new-born  things ! 

RACHEL.  This  one  lies  very  still. 

I'll  get  more  peats  to  heap  upon  the  fire. 


36  STONEFOLDS 

It's  cold,  maybe.      [Goes  through  the  inner  door.] 
NICHOLAS.          It's  weak,  and  like  to  die. 

[The  outer  door  slowly  opens,  and  RUTH  enters,  wearily,  with 
hesitating  steps.  She  is  dressed  in  a  cloak,  and  is  cov- 
ered with  snow.  She  pauses  uncertainly  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  looks  at  her  father,  who,  unaware  of 
her  presence,  still  sits  gazing  at  the  lamb,  which  opens 
its  mouth  as  if  to  bleat,  but  makes  no  sound.] 

NICHOLAS.     Poor,  bleating  beast !     We  two  are  much  alike, 
At  either  end  of  life,  though  scarce  an  hour 
You've  been  in  this  rough  world,  and  I  so  long 
That  death  already  has  me  by  the  heels ; 
For  neither  of  us  can  stir  to  help  himself, 
But  both  must  bleat  for  others'  aid.     This  world 
Is  rough  and  bitter  to  the  newly  born, 
But  far  more  bitter  to  the  nearly  dead. 

RUTH  [softly].     Father! 

NICHOLAS   [not  hearing  her,  and  still  mumbling  to  himself]. 

I've  seen  so  many  young  things  born, 
So  many  perish! 

[RACHEL  enters,  and,  seeing  RUTH,  drops  the  peats  which 
she  is  carrying  and  folds  her  to  her  breast.] 

RACHEL.  Ruth!     My  child,  my  child ! 

NICHOLAS  [still  gazing  into  the  fire].     Why  harp  on  Ruth? 

The  lass  has  made  her  bed.  .  .  . 
RUTH   [tottering  towards  him  and  kneeling  on  the  rug  by  his 

side].     Father! 
NICHOLAS.  What,  is  it  Ruth?     [Fondling  her.] 

My  child,  my  child! 

Why,  you  are  cold ;  and  you  are  white  with  snow ! 
You  shiver,  lass,  like  any  new-born  lamb. 

[RACHEL  meanwhile  strips  off  RUTH'S  cloak,  and  fills  a  cup 
with  milk  from  the  pan  on  the  hob.] 

RUTH.     I  thought  I  never  should  win  home.     The  snow 
Was  all  about  me.     Even  now  my  eyes 
Are  blinded  by  the  whirling  white  that  stung 
My  face  like  knotted  cords,  and  in  my  ears 
Rustled  of  death  —  of  cold,  white,  swirling  death. 


STONEFOLDS  37 

I  thought  I  never  should  win  home  again 

With  that  wild  night  against  me.     How  I  fought! 

I  was  so  weary,  I  was  fain  at  whiles 

To  strive  no  more  against  the  cruel  night, 

And  could  have  lain  down  gladly  in  a  drift, 

As  in  my  bed,  to  die  .  .  .  had  I  not  known  .  .  . 

Yet,  knowing,  I  dared  not.     But  I  am  dazed. 

RACHEL  [holding  the  cup  to  RUTH'S  lips'].     Come,  drink  this 

milk.     'Twas  heated  for  the  lambs. 
I  little  knew  that  for  my  own  poor  lamb 
I  set  it  on  the  hob  an  hour  ago! 

RUTH  [seeing  for  the  first  time  the  lamb  on  the  hearth].     The 

lambs  ?     I  had  forgotten  —  I  am  dazed. 
This  is  the  lambing-time ;  and  Ralph  .  .  . 

and  Ralph  .  .  . 

NICHOLAS.     Is  in  the  fold,  where  I  should  be  if  I  ... 

RUTH  [bending  over  the  lamb].     Ah,  what  a  night  to  come  into 

the  world ! 

Poor,  motherless  thing!  and  those  poor,  patient  mothers! 
I  might  have  known  it  was  the  lambing-storm. 

[She  moans  and  almost  falls,  but  RACHEL  stays  her  in  her 
arms.] 

RACHEL.     Child,  you  are  ill ! 

RUTH.  Yes,  I  am  near  my  time. 

RACHEL    [raising  her  from   the  ground  and  supporting   her]. 

Come,  daughter,  your  own  bed  awaits  you  now, 
And  has  awaited  you  these  many  nights.' 
Come,  Ruth.      [They  move  slowly  across  the  room.] 

RUTH.  I  thought  I  never  should  win  home. 

NICHOLAS  [as  they  pass  into  the  inner  room].     Yes,  I  have  seen 

so  many  young  things  born, 
So  many  perish !     Rachel !     They  are  gone ; 
And  we're  alone  again,  the  lamb  and  I. 
Poor  beast,  poor  beast,  has  she  forgotten  you 
Now  that  her  own  stray  lamb  is  home  again  ? 
You  lie  so  still  and  bleat  no  longer  now. 
It's  only  I  bleat  now.     Maybe,  you're  dead, 
And  will  not  bleat  again,  or  need  to  bleat, 
Because  you're  spared  by  death  from  growing  old ; 
And  it  can  scarce  be  long  till  death's  cold  clutch 
Shall  stop  my  bleating  too. 


38  STONEFOLDS 

[He  sits  gazing  into  the  fire,  and  dozes.  Time  passes.  The 
cry  of  a  new-born  babe  is  heard  from  the  next  room.] 

NICHOLAS  [mumbling,  half  asleep].    Yes,  I  have  seen 
So  many  young  things  born,  so  many  perish ! 

[He  dozes  again.  After  a  while  RACHEL  enters,  carrying  a 
baby  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  which  she  lays  on  the  rug  be- 
fore the  fire.] 

RACHEL.     See,  Nicholas!     Wake  up!     It  is  Ruth's  child. 

NICHOLAS  [waking].     Ruth's  child!     Why,  Ruth  is  but  a  child 
herself! 

RACHEL.     Don't  sleep  again,  for  you  must  watch  the  babe 
While  I  go  back  to  Ruth  again.     She  lies 
So  still  and  cold ;  and  knows  naught  of  the  child. 
Unless  she  rouse,  she  cannot  last  till  day. 

[Goes  into  the  other  room.] 

NICHOLAS.     So  many  young  things  perish;  and  I,  so  old, 
Am  left  to  sit  all  day  with  idle  hands, 
And  can  do  naught  to  save  them. 

[The  knocking  of  snowy  boots  against  the  threshold  is  heard 
again.  The  door  opens,  and  RALPH  enters  with  his 
lanthorn.] 

Is  that  Ralph? 

[RALPH  goes  towards  the  lamb,  but,  seeing  the  child,  stands 
gazing  in  amazement.] 

RALPH.     Uncle,  what  babe  is  this? 

NICHOLAS.  Lad,  Ruth  is  home. 

RALPH.     Ruth  has  come  home!     I  knew  that  she  would  come. 
She  could  not  stay,  though  held  so  long  from  me, 
For  I  have  ever  called  her  in  my  heart, 
By  day  and  night,  through  all  the  weary  year. 
I  knew  —  I  knew  that  she  would  come  to-night 
Through  storm  and  peril,  and  within  the  fold 
My  heart  has  gone  out  to  the  labouring  ewes, 
And  new-born  lambs,  and  all  weak,  helpless  things. 
And  yet  I  might  have  killed  her !  —  though  I  sought 
Only  to  draw  her  to  my  shielding  breast. 
She  might  have  fallen  by  the  way,  and  died, 
On  such  a  night!     She  shall  not  stray  again. 


STONEFOLDS  39 

The  love  that  drew  her  from  the  perilous  night 
May  never  let  her  go. 

[RACHEL,  entering,  is  about  to  speak,  but  seeing  RALPH, 
pauses.] 

RALPH  [to  RACHEL].     Ruth  has  come  home! 
And  we  shall  never  let  her  go  again. 

RACHEL  [speaking  slowly].     Ay,  Ruth  is  home. 

[Going  to  the  hearth  and  taking  the  child  in  her  arms.] 
You  poor,  poor,  motherless  babe! 

[RALPH  gazes  at  her  as  though  stunned,  then  bends  over  the 
lamb.] 

RALPH.     It's  dead.     I  must  go  back  now  to  the  fold. 
I  shall  be  there  till  morning. 

[He  crosses  to  the  door  and  goes  out.] 
RACHEL  [calling  after  him]     Ralph!  your  plaid! 

[She  follows  to  the  door  and  opens  it.     The  snow  drifts  into 
the  room]. 

RACHEL.     He's  gone  without  his  lanthorn  and  his  plaid. 
God  keep  him  safe  on  such  a  night !     Poor  Ralph ! 
Ruth's  babe  no  longer  breathes. 

[Laying  the  child  by  the  dead  lamb] 

To-night  has  death 

Shown  pity  to  the  motherless  and  weak, 
And  folded  them  in  peace.     How  sweet  they  sleep! 

NICHOLAS.     We  two  have  seen  so  many  young  things  born, 
So  many  perish ;  yet  death  takes  us  not. 
Wife,  bar  the  door ;  that  wind  ,blows  through  my  bones. 
It's  a  long  night.      [Clock  strikes.] 

What  hour  is  that? 

RACHEL.  It's  one; 

The  night  is  over. 

NICHOLAS.  Yet  another  day! 


THE  BRIDAL 

Persons: 

HUGH  SHIELD,  a  young  shepherd. 
ESTHER  SHIELD,  his  bride. 
ANN  SHIELD,  his  mother. 

Scene:  The  living-room  of  Bleakridge,  a  lonely  shepherd's  cot- 
tage on  the  fells.  In  one  corner  is  a  four-post  bed  on  which 
ANN  SHIELD,  an  old,  bed-ridden  woman,  lies  sleeping,  unseen 
behind  the  closed  curtains.  On  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  a  meal  is  spread.  The  latch  clicks,  the  door  opens,  and 
HUGH  SHIELD  enters,  glancing  towards  the  bed,  then  turns 
to  hold  open  the  door  for  ESTHER  SHIELD,  who  follows  him 
into  the  room. 

HUGH.     Wife,  welcome  home! 

[Embracing  her,  and  leading  her  to  a  chair. ~\ 

Come,  rest,  for  you  are  tired. 
ESTHER.     No,  I'm  not  weary.      [Looking  towards  bed.] 

Does  your  mother  sleep? 
HUGH  [crossing  to  bed  and  peering  betwixt  the  curtains].     Ay, 

she  sleeps  sound,  and  we'll  not  waken  her, 
For  she  is  ever  fretful  when  she  wakes. 
It  would  not  do  to.  break  the  news  .  .  . 

ESTHER.  The  news! 

Did  she  not  know  we  were  to  wed  to-day? 

HUGH.     She  did  not  know  I  was  to  wed  at  all. 
ESTHER.     Hugh!     Why  did  you  not  tell  her? 
HUGH.  I  don't  know. 

I  would  have  told  her  when  I  spoke  to  you  — 
Just  seven  nights  since  —  it  seems  so  long  ago !  — 
But  when  I  breathed  your  name  she  put  me  off 
Ere  I  had  told  my  will.     She's  sorely  failed, 
And  wanders  in  her  speech.     A  chance  word  serves 
To  scare  her  like  a  shadow-startled  ewe, 
40 


STONEFOLDS  41 

And  send  her  old  mind  rambling  through  the  past 

Till  I  can  scarce  keep  pace  with  her.     Next  morn 

I  spoke,  and  still  she  would  not  hear  me  out, 

And  yet  she  ever  liked  you,  lass,  and  naught 

She  spoke  against  you ;  only  her  poor  wits 

Are  like  a  flock  of  sheep  without  a  herd ; 

And  so  she  mumbled  idle,  driftless  things; 

Unless  it  were  a  mother's  jealous  fear 

That  made  her  cunning,  and  she  sought  to  turn 

My  thoughts  from  you.     Old  people  aye  dread  change. 

ESTHER.     You  should  have  told  her  ere  we  wedded,  Hugh. 

HUGH.     When  I  arose  this  morn,  I  went  to  her 
To  tell  her,  but  she  slept ;  and  when  I  set 
Her  breakfast  on  the  table  by  her  bed, 
I  would  have  waked  her,  and  stretched  out  my  hand 
To  rouse  her,  and  the  words  were  on  my  lips ; 
And  yet,  I  didn't  touch  her,  spoke  no  word. 
I  was  afraid  to  speak,  I  don't  know  why. 
'Twas  folly,  lass,  and  yet  I  could  not  speak. 

ESTHER.     You  should  have  told  her. 

HUGH.  Well,  it  doesn't  matter; 

For  we  are  wedded,  Esther.     I'm  no  boy, 
That  I  must  ever  ask  my  mother's  leave 
Ere  I  do  aught.     I  left  her  sleeping  still ; 
And  when  she  waked,  she'd  think  me  with  the  sheep; 
And  sup  her  meal  in  peace ;  and  little  know 
Into  what  fold  I  wandered,  and  with  whom ! 

ESTHER.     You  should  have  told  her,  Hugh.     She  will  be  wroth 
To  wake  and  find  you  wed.     If  you  were  frightened 
To  tell  her  then,  how  will  you  tell  her  now  ? 

HUGH.     'Twas  not  her  wrath  I  feared.     I  scarce  know  why 
I  did  not  tell  her ;  for  I  would  have  wed 
Though  she  had  bidden  me  "  Nay  "  a  thousand  times. 
Lass,  do  you  think  a  word  would  hold  me  back, 
Like  a  cowed  collie,  when  I  would  be  forth  ? 
Not  all  the  world  could  keep  me  from  you,  lass, 
Once  I  had  set  my  heart  on  you.     D'you  think 
I  should  have  taken  "  Nay,"  lass,  even  from  you! 

ESTHER.     Ay,  you  are  masterful ;  and  had  your  way 
To  church  ere  scarce  I  knew  it;  and,  yet,  Hugh, 
You  had  not  had  your  way  so  easily 
Had  it  not  been  my  way  as  well ! 

HUGH.  Ay,  lass, 

Naught  could  have  held  us  from  each  other  —  naught, 


42  STONEFOLDS 

And  naught  shall  ever  part  us. 

ESTHER  [glancing  towards  the  bed].     Hugh,  she  stirs. 
Your  voice  has  wakened  her. 

ANN  [from  the  bed].  Hugh,  are  you  there? 

HUGH  [going  towards  the  bed}.     Ay,  mother. 

ANN.  Lad,  what  hour  fs  it? 

HUGH.  Nigh  noon. 

ANN.     I  did  not  wake  till  you  had  gone  this  morn. 
I  must  have  slumbered  soundly,  though  I  slept 
But  little  in  the  night.     I  could  not  sleep. 
I  lay  awake,  and  watched  the  dark  hours  pass;  •    . 
They  seemed  to  trail  as  slowly  as  the  years 
On  which  I  brooded,  and  did  naught  but  brood, 
Though  my  eyes  burned  for  slumber  —  those  dark  years 
So  long  since  passed !     I  did  not  sleep  till  dawn  ; 
And  then  I  dreamt  again  of  those  dark  years  ; 
And  in  my  dream  they  seemed  to  threaten  you. 
And  when  I  waked  the  clock  was  striking  nine, 
And  you  were  gone.     I  must  have  slept  again, 
For  you  are  here.     I  did  not  hear  the  latch. 

HUGH.     Mother,  I  spoke  to  you  the  other  eve 
Of  Esther  —  but  you  did  not  heed  .  .  . 

ANN.  My  dream! 

Hugh,  lad,  I  heard  your  words  with  fearful  heart, 
Yet,  could  not  speak.     Son,  you  must  never  wed. 

HUGH.     What  say  you,  mother!     Am  I  yet  a  boy  — 
A  pup  to  bring  to  heel  with  "  must  "  and  "  shall  "? 
Mother,  this  cur's  beyond  your  call ! 

ANN.  Nay,  lad, 

I  don't  bid  you  for  bidding's  sake ;  nor  yet 
Because  I  dread  another  mistress  here. 
Hugh,  son,  my  mother's  heart  would  have  you  wed ; 
Yet  this  same  heart  cries  out  to  hinder  you. 
Believe  me,  for  your  happiness  I  speak. 
You  must  not  wed. 

HUGH.  Hush,  mother!     Don't  speak  now. 

[He  motions  to  ESTHER,  who  conies  forward  to  the  bed.} 

ANN   [turning  towards  ESTHER].     Is  some  one  there?     You 

should  have  told  me,  Hugh. 
Who  is  it,  lad ;  for  my  old  eyes  are  weak, 
And  the  light  dazzles  them  ?     I  know  the  face. 
Is't  Esther  Ord  ? 


STONEFOLDS  43 

HUGH.  No,  Esther  Shield,  my  bride. 

ANN  [after  a  pause].     Then  it's  too  late!     Had  I  but  spoken 

then, 
Or  held  my  tongue  for  ever ! 

HUGH.  That  were  best. 

Don't  heed  her,  lass.     She  doesn't  know  what  she  says. 

ANN.     Would  that  I  didn't  know,  had  never  known ! 

0  son,  it's  you  who  do  not  know.     But  now, 
It  is  too  late,  too  late.     How  could  I  think 
That  you  would  wed,  and  never  breathe  a  word! 
And  yet,  I  might  have  known,  I  might  have  known ! 
You  have  your  father's  will. 

HUGH.  Ay,  mother,  words 

Are  naught  to  me  but  words:  and  all  your  words 
Would  never  stay  me  when  my  heart  was  set. 
If  'twas  my  father's  way,  I  am  his  son. 

ANN.     You  are  his  son.     Would,  lad,  that  you  were  not ! 

HUGH.     Mother! 

ANN.  You're  right,  son,  I  will  say  no  more. 

1  should  have  spoken  then,  or  not  at  all. 
It's  now  too  late  to  speak. 

ESTHER.  It's  not  too  late. 

HUGH  [slowly],     Esther  says  truly.     It's  not  yet  too  late. 
You  shall  speak  on  now ;  it's  too  late  to  leave 
Your  thought  unspoken,  mother.     You  have  said 
Too  much  —  too  little  to  keep  silence  now. 
The  gate's  unbarred ;  you  cannot  stay  the  flock. 

ANN.     Have  I  not  kept  my  counsel  all  these  years? 
Nay,  I'll  not  speak  now;  it's  too  late,  too  late. 

[Turning  to  ESTHER.] 

Esther,  my  lass,  I  would  you  had  not'heard. 
I  wish  you  well,  though  you  may  doubt  it  now  — 
I  wish  you  well  with  all  my  heart.     Come  nigh 
That  I  may  kiss  you. 

ESTHER.  It  is  not  too  late. 

If  you  have  any  mercy  in  your  heart, 
Speak  out  your  mind  as  though  I  were  not  here. 

HUGH.     Ay,  you  shall  speak  out  now. 

ANN.  Then  I  shall  speak. 

Maybe  it's  not  too  late.     I  shall  speak  out 
As  I  would  one  had  spoken  out  to  me 
Upon  my  bridal-morn.     If  my  words  seem 


44  STONEFOLDS 

Too  fierce,  too  bitter,  it's  because  they  spring 

From  a  fierce,  bitter  heart.     O  Esther,  lass, 

'Twere  better  you  should  die  than  your  young  heart 

Grow  old  and  fierce  and  bitter  —  better  far 

That  it  should  break,  and  you  should  die,  than  live 

To  grow  old  in  black  bitterness  and  wrath 

As  I  have  done.     I  have  not  much  life  left, 

But  I  would  save  you,  lass,  with  my  last  breath, 

If  any  word  can  fend  off  destiny. 

And,  Hugh,  my  son,  though  I  speak  bitter  things 

To  your  unhappiness,  I  only  seek 

To  snatch  you  from  disaster.     You  have  said 

That  words  are  weak:  yet,  I  have  nothing  else. 

You  will  not  hate  a  poor,  old  woman,  Hugh, 

Because  she  snatches  at  a  wisp  of  straw 

To  save  the  son  who  drowns  before  her  eyes? 

I  must  speak  out  the  bitter,  galling  truth, 

Though  you  should  hate  me,  son,  for  evermore. 

HUGH.     Say  on:  I  shall  not  hate  you.     Speak  out  all 
If  it  will  ease  you. 

ANN.  Naught  can  bring  me  ease 

Save  death,  and  death  bides  long.     Yet,  I  will  speak. 
You  did  not  know  your  father,  Hugh;  he  died 
When  you  were  in  your  cradle.     You  have  heard 
How,  on  a  hurdle,  he  was  brought  home  dead 
From  Thirlwall  Crags;  for  folk  have  told  you  this, 
Though  I  have  never  breathed  his  name  to  you. 
They  wondered  how  he  fell.     He  did  not  fall. 
And  when  I  never  spoke  of  him,  they  thought 
That  I  was  dumb  with  sorrow.     It  was  hate 
That  held  me  mute.     How  should  I  mourn  him  dead 
Whom  I  had  hated  living!     Don't  speak,  Hugh, 
Till  I  have  told  you  all.     Then  you  shall  judge. 
I  scarce  have  breath  to  tell  the  tale ;  and  yet, 
'Twill  soon  be  told ;  and  if  you  hate  me,  son, 
As  I  did  hate  your  father,  I  fear  not, 
For  I  am  too  nigh  death ;  and  soon  shall  lie, 
Unmindful  of  your  hate  as  he  of  mine. 
I  could  not  hate  you,  son,  although  you  bear 
His  name,  and  though  his  blood  runs  in  your  veins. 
When  first  I  knew  him  he  was  much  like  you  — 
As  tall  and  broad  and  comely,  and  his  eyes 
The  same  fierce  blue,  his  hair  the  same  dull  red. 
Ay,  you  are  like  your  father  to  your  hands  — 


STONEFOLDS  45 

Your  big,  brown,  cruel  hands!     You  have  his  grip. 

And  he  was  just. about  your  age;  and  lived 

Here  with  his  father,  a  fierce,  silent  man  — 

Mad  Hugh  the  neighbours  called  him  —  whose  wife  died 

Ere  she  could  weary  of  her  wedding-gown. 

Folks  said  that  fear  had  killed  her.     Yet,  when  Hugh, 

Your  father,  wooed,  I  could  not  say  him  nay, 

Though  he  was  like  his  father.     I  was  young, 

And  loved  him  for  his  very  fierceness ;  proud 

Because  he  was  so  big  and  strong;  and  yet, 

I  ever  feared  him ;  and,  poor,  trembling  fool, 

'Twas  fear  that  drove  me  to  him ;  and  we  wed 

When  old  Hugh  died.     The  day  he  brought  me  home  — 

Home  to  this  self-same  house,  I  shrank  from  him 

Because  I  feared  him,  and  he  saw  my  fear. 

I  feared  the  passion  in  his  wild,  blue  eyes, 

And  loathed  his  fiery  love  —  so  nigh  to  hate. 

But  I  was  his;  and  there  was  none  to  speak 

As  now  I  speak,  or,  on  that  very  morn, 

I  should  have  left  him.     Ah,  had  I  but  known! 

I  was  so  young.     A  bitter  year  wore  through, 

Ami  you  were  born,  son :  still  I  could  not  die, 

Though  fear  was  ever  on  me,  and  he  knew 

I  feared  him,  and  for  that  he  hated  me. 

Have  patience,  lad;  the  tale  is  well-nigh  told. 

One  day,  when  his  hand  touched  me,  I  shrank  back. 

He  saw,  and  sudden  frenzy  filled  his  eyes; 

He  clutched  me  by  the  throat  with  savage  grip, 

And  flung  me  fiercely  from  him ;  and  I  fell 

Against  the  hearthstone,  and  knew  nothing  more, 

Till,  coming  to  myself  again,  I  found 

That  he  was  gone ;  and  all  the  room  was  dark. 

The  night  had  fallen;  and  I  heard  you  cry  — 

For  you  were  in  your  cradle,  Hugh  —  and  rose, 

Though  all  my  body  quivered  with  keen  pain, 

To  suckle  you.     Next  morn  they  brought  him  in, 

Dead  on  a  hurdle.     When  I  swooned  and  fell, 

They  thought  that  grief  had  killed  me;  but,  even  then, 

I  could  not  die,  and  came  to  life  again, 

And  wakened  on  this  bed  I  have  not  left 

So  many  years.     The  folk  were  good  to  me, 

And  as  they  tended  you  I  heard  them  talk, 

And  wonder  how  your  father  came  to  fall; 

Yet,  I  spoke  naught  of  him,  because  I  knew 


46  STONEFOLDS 

He  hadn't  fallen;  but  headlong  to  death 
Had  leapt,  afraid  his  hand  had  murdered  me. 
Ay,  panic  drove  him.  .  .  .  You  must  Hear  me  out. 
Don't  speak  yet,  lad.     I  have  not  much  to  say. 
But  you  are  all  your  father ! 

HUGH.  I  shall  speak! 

Say,  mother,  have  I  ever  done  you  ill  ? 

ANN.     No,  son,  you  ever  have  been  good  to  me, 
Because  I  knew  you,  and  I  did  not  fear  you. 
Yet,  you  are  all  your  father.     When  a  babe 
I  knew  it,  for  your  little  fist  would  smite 
The  breast  from  which  it  fed  in  sudden  wrath. 
When  you  were  barely  weaned,  a  shepherd  brought 
A  poor,  wee,  motherless  lamb  for  you  to  tend ; 
And  though  you  loved  it  with  your  hot,  young  heart, 
And  hugged  it  nigh  to  death ;  and,  day  or  night, 
Would  not  be  parted  from  it ;  yet  one  morn, 
When  it  shrank  from  your  fierce  caress,  your  hands 
In  sudden  fury  clutched  its  throat,  and  nigh 
Had  strangled  it,  ere  it  was  snatched  from  you. 
That  day  I  vowed  that  you  should  never  wed 
If  I  might  stay  you.     But  I  speak  too  late. 
'Twere  as  much  use  to  bid  the  unborn  babe 
Beware  to  breathe  the  bitter  breath  of  life! 

HUGH.     It  is  not  yet  too  late.     [Turning/  to  ESTHER.] 
Lass,  you  have  heard. 


[Goinff  to  the  door  and  throwing  it  open.] 


The  door  is  open ;  you  are  free  to  go. 
Why  do  you  tarry?     Are  you  not  afraid? 
Go,  ere  I  hate  you.     I'll  not  hinder  you. 
I  would  not  have  you  bound  to  me  by  fear. 
Don't  fear  to  leave  me;  rather  fear  to  bide 
With  me  who  am  my  father's  very  son. 
Go,  lass,  while  yet  I  love  you! 

ESTHER  [closing  the  door].     I  shall  bide. 
I  have  heard  all;  and  yet,  I  would  not  go, 
Nor  would  I  have  a  single  word  unsaid. 
I  loved  you,  husband ;  yet,  I  did  not  know  you 
Until  your  mother  spoke.     I  know  you  now ; 
And  I  am  not  afraid. 


[Taking  off  her  hat,  and  moving  towards  the  table.] 
Come,  take  your  seat. 


THE  SCAR 

Persons: 

ABEL  FORSTER,  a  shepherd. 
MARGARET  FORSTER,  his  wife. 

Scene:  The  Scar,  a  shepherd's  cottage  on  the  fells.  ABEL  FORS- 
TER is  seated  with  his  back  to  the  open  door,  gazing  with  un- 
seeing eyes  into  a  smouldering  peat-fire,  the  dull  glow  from 
which  is  the  only  light  in  the  room.  The  pendulum  of  the 
hanging-clock  is  silent  and  motionless,  and  the  choral  voice 
of  the  moorland-burn  and  the  intermittent  hunting-cry  of  the 
owl  are  the  only  sounds  that  break  the  frosty  silence  of  the 
night.  Presently,  a  step  is  heard  on  the  threshold,  and  MAR- 
GARET FORSTER  enters,  wrapped  in  a  shawl  which  covers  the 
bundle  she  is  carrying  in  her  arms.  As  she  sinks  wearily  into 
a  chair  by  the  door,  ABEL  looks  up  at  her,  uncertainly;  then 
fixes  his  eyes  again  on  the  fire,  from  which  he  does  not  raise 
them  while  speaking. 

ABEL.     So,  you  are  back! 

MARGARET.  Yes,  I  am  back. 

ABEL.  I  knew, 

Sooner  or  later,  you  would  come  again. 
I  have  expected  you  these  many  nights, 
But  thought  to  see  you  sooner,  lass. 

MARGARET.  And  yet, 

You  could  not  know :  I  did  not  know  myself  ; 
And  even  at  the  door  I  almost  turned. 

ABEL.     Yet,  you  are  here. 

MARGARET.  Yes,  I  am  here  to-night; 

But  where  the  dawn  shall  find  me  I  don't  know. 

ABEL.     You  would  not  go  again !     Lass,  do  you  think 
My  door  shall  ever  stand  ajar  for  you 
To  come  and  go  when  it  may  please  your  whim? 

MARGARET.     No ;  if  I  go  again,  I  don't  come  back. 

ABEL.     You  shall  not  go. 

MARGARET.  Ah!  have  you  not  learned  aught 

47 


48  STONEFOLDS 

From  the  long  months  that  taught  so  much  to  me? 

ABEL.     Ay,  lass,  I  have  learned  something.     Do  not  leave  me. 
You,  too,  have  learned,  you  say ;  and  have  come  home. 
Why  go  again  into  the  world  to  starve 
While  there  is  food  and  shelter  for  you  here? 
But  you  will  bide.     We  shall  forget  the  past. 
Let  us  forgive  each  other.  .  .  . 

MARGARET.  I  don't  come 

To  crave  forgiveness  —  nor  would  I  forget. 

ABEL.     Why  have  you  come  then?     Were  you  hunger-driven? 

0  lass,  I  hoped  .  .  . 

MARGARET.  No,  I  don't  come  to  beg ; 

Nor  would  I  starve  while  I  have  hands  to  work. 

1  lacked  nor  food  nor  shelter  since  I  left. 
ABEL.     Then,  why  have  you  returned? 

MARGARET.  I  have  come  back 

Because  I  am  the  mother  of  your  son. 

[She  rises  from  her  seat  and  throws  back  her  shawl,  reveal- 
ing a  baby  at  her  breast.} 

ABEL  [looking  up].     My  son!     Ah,  Margaret!     Now  I  under- 
stand. 
To  think  I  didn't  know! 

MARGARET.  The  boy  was  born 

A  month  ago. 

ABEL.  Your  babe  has  brought  you  home. 

You  will  not  go  again.     You  have  come  back 
Because  you  could  not  quite  forget! 

MARGARET.  I've  come 

Because  the  babe  is  yours.     I  would  not  keep 
Your  own  from  you ;  nor  would  I  rob  the  child 
Of  home  and  father. 

ABEL.  Had  you  no  other  thought? 

Had  you  forgotten  in  so  brief  a  while 
How  we  had  loved,  lass? 

MARGARET.  We  knew  naught  of  love. 

ABEL.     Did  we  not  know  love  when  we  wedded  ? 

MARGARET.  No ! 

It  was  not  love,  but  passion  wedded  us; 
And  passion  parted  us  as  easily. 

ABEL.     Ay,  passion  parted  us.     Yet,  surely,  love 
Brings  us  again  together.     We  were  young 
And  hasty,  maybe,  when  we  wed ;  but,  lass, 


STONEFOLDS  49 

I  have  awaited  these  seven  weary  months 

For  your  return ;  and  with  the  sheep  by  day, 

Or  brooding  every  night  beside  the  hearth, 

I  have  thought  long  on  many  things.     The  months 

Have  brought  me  wisdom ;  and  I  love.     I  knew 

You  would  return ;  for  you,  too,  have  found  love. 

MARGARET.     Is  this  your  wisdom?     Little  have  you  learned. 
You  are  as  hasty  as  the  day  we  wed ! 
I,  too,  have  brooded  long  on  many  things. 
Maybe,  my  wisdom  is  no  more  than  yours, 
But  only  time  will  tell.     Who  knows!     I've  lived 
And  laboured  in  the  city  these  long  months; 
And  though  I  found  friends  even  there,  and  folk 
Were  good  to  me;  and,  when  the  boy  was  born, 
A  neighbour  tended  me  —  yet,  to  my  heart, 
The  city  was  a  solitude;  I  lived 
Alone  in  all  that  teeming  throng  of  folk. 
Yet,  I  was  not  afraid  to  be  alone ; 
Nor,  in  my  loneliness,  did  I  regret 
That  we  had  parted ;  for  the  solitude 
Revealed  so  much  that  else  I  had  not  learned 
Of  my  own  heart  to  me.     But,  when,  at  length 
I  knew  another  life  within  me  stirred, 
My  thoughts  turned  homewards  to  the  hills;  it  seemed 
So  pitiful  that  a  baby  should  be  born 
Amid  that  stifling  squalor.     As  I  watched 
The  little  children,  starved  and  pinched  and  white, 
Already  old  in  evil  ere  their  time, 
Who  swarmed  in  those  foul  alleys,  and  who  played 
In  every  gutter  of  the  reeking  courts, 
I  vowed  no  child  of  mine  should  draw  its  breath 
In  that  dark  city,  by  our  waywardness 
Robbed  of  the  air  and  sun,  ay,  and  the  hills, 
And  the  wide  playground  of  the  windy  heath: 
And  yet,  I  lingered  till  the  boy  was  born. 
But.  as  he  nestled  at  my  breast,  he  drew 
The  angry  pride  from  me ;  and,  as  I  looked 
Upon  him  I  remembered  you.     He  brought 
Me  understanding;  and  his  wide,  blue  eyes 
Told  me  that  he  was  yours;  and,  while  he  slept, 
I  often  lay  awake  and  thought  of  you ; 
And  wondered  what  life  held  for  this  wee  babe. 
And  sometimes  in  the  night  .  .  . 

ABEL.  Have  you,  too,  known 


5o  STONEFOLDS 

The  long  night-watches?     Since  you  went  avray, 

Each  morning,  as  I  left  the  lonely  house, 

My  heart  said :  surely  she  will  come  to-day ; 

And  when  each  evening  I  returned  from  work, 

I  looked  to  meet  you  on  the  threshold ;  yet, 

By  night  alone  within  the  silent  house 

I  longed  for  you  the  sorest.     Through  lone  hours 

My  heart  has  listened  for  your  step,  until 

I  trembled  at  the  noises  of  the  night. 

I  am  no  craven,  yet,  the  moor-owl's  shriek 

At  midnight,  or  the  barking  of  a  fox, 

Or  even -the  drumming  of  the  snipe  ere  dawn 

Has  set  me  quaking.     Ay,  night  long,  for  you 

The  door  was  left  ajar.     And,  hour  by  hour, 

I've  listened  to  the  singing  of  the  burn 

Until  I  had  each  tinkling  note  by  heart. 

Though  I  have  lived  my  life  among  the  hills, 

I  never  listened  to  a  stream  before. 

Yet,  little  comfort  all  its  melody 

Could  bring  my  heart ;  but  now  that  you  are  back 

It  seems  to  sing  you  welcome  to  your  home. 

You  have  come  home.     You  could  not  quite  forget. 

MARGARET.     I  have  forgotten  naught;  and  naught  I  rue: 
Yet,  when  the  weakness  left  me,  I  arose 
To  bring  your  babe  to  you. 

ABEL.  Naught  but  the  babe? 

MARGARET.     Lad,  shut  the  door;  for  I  am  cold;  and  fetch 
Some  peats  to  mend  the  fire ;  it's  almost  out. 
You  need  a  woman's  hand  to  tend  you,  lad. 
See,  you  have  let  the  clock  run  down! 

ABEL.  My  heart 

Kept  bitter  count  of  all  those  lonely  hours. 
Margaret,  your  wisdom  is  no  less  than  mine ; 
And  mine  is  love,  lass. 

MARGARET.  Only  time  will  tell. 


WINTER  DAWN 

Persons: 

•     STEPHEN  REED,  a  shepherd. 

ELIZABETH  REED,  Stephen's  wife. 
MARY  REED,  Stephen's  mother. 

Scene:  Caller  steads,  a  lonely  shepherd's  cottage  on  the  fells.  A 
candle  burns  on  the  window-sill,  though  the  light  of  dawn  al- 
ready glimmers  through  the  snow-blinded  panes.  ELIZABETH 
REED  paces  the  sanded  floor  with  impatient  step.  MARY 
REED  sits  crouched  on  the  settle  over  the  peat-fire;  ELIZA- 
BETH'S baby  sleeping  in  a  cradle  by  her  side. 

ELIZABETH.     The  men  are  long  away. 

MARY.  Have  patience,  lass; 

They'll  soon  be  back;  they've  scarce  been  gone  an  hour. 
It's  toilsome  travelling  when  the  drifts  are  deep ; 
And  William  is  no  longer  young.     Fear  naught, 
They'll  bring  back  Stephen  with  them  safe  and  sound. 

ELIZABETH.     You  know  he  could  not  live  through  such  a  night. 

MARY.     Nay,  none  may  know  but  God.     I  only  know 
That  I  have  heard  my  father  many  times 
Tell  over  and  over,  as  though  it  were  some  tale 
He'd  learned  by  heart  —  for  he  was  innocent 
And  helpless  as  a  babe  for  many  years 
Before  death  took  him  —  how,  when  he  was  young, 
A  hundred  sheep  were  buried  in  the  drifts 
Down  Devil's  Sike,  yet  not  an  ewe  was  lost, 
Though  five  days  passed  ere  they  could  be  dug  out ; 
And  they  had  cropped  the  grass  beneath  their  feet 
Bare  to  the  roots,  and  nibbled  at  their  wool 
To  stay  the  pangs  of  hunger,  when,  at  last, 
The  shepherds  found  them,  nearly  starved,  poor  beasts. 
If  the  frost  hold,  sheep  live  for  many  days 
Beneath  a  drift;  the  snow  lies  on  them  light, 
So  they  can  draw  their  breath,  and  keep  them  warm; 
But  when  the  thaw  comes  it  is  death  to  them, 
For  they  are  smothered  'neath  the  melting  snow. 
Si 


52  STONEFOLDS 

I've  heard  my  father  speak  these  very  words 
A  thousand  times;  and  I  can  see  him  now, 
As,  huddled  in  the  ingle  o'er  the  fire, 
With  crazy  eyes  and  ever-groping  hands, 
He  sat  all  day,  and  mumbled  to  himself. 
If  silly  sheep  can  keep  themselves  alive 
So  many  days  and  nights,  a  shepherd  lad, 
With  all  his  wits  to  strive  against  the  storm, 
Would  never  perish  in  a  day  and  night; 
And  Stephen  is  a  man.  .  .  . 

ELIZABETH.  If  Stephen  lived, 

He  would  not  bide  from  home  a  day  and  night; 
He  could  not  lose  his  way  across  the  fell, 
Unless  the  snow  o'ercame  him. 

MARY.  Yet,  maybe, 

He  sheltered  'neath  a  dyke,  and  fell  asleep ; 
And  William  and  his  man  will  find  him  there. 

ELIZABETH.     Ay,  they  will  find  him  sleeping  sure  enough, 
But  from  that  slumber  who  shall  waken  him  ? 

MARY.     Nay,  lass,  you  shall  not  speak  so !     Stephen  lives, 
The  mother's  heart  within  me  tells  me  this: 
That  I  shall  look  upon  my  son  again 
Before  an  hour  has  passed. 

ELIZABETH.  A  wife's  love  knows 

Its  loss  ere  it  be  told ;  and  in  my  heart 
I  know  this  night  has  taken  him  from  me. 
My  husband's  eyes  shall  never  look  again 
In  mine,  nor  his  lips  ever  call  me  wife. 
You  cannot  love  him  as  I  love  him.  .  .  . 

MARY.  Lass ! 

ELIZABETH.     Because  he  is  your  son,  you  love  him,  woman ; 
But  I,  for  love  of  him,  became  his  bride. 

MARY.     Lass,  don't  speak  so.     Your  son  cries  out  to  you. 
Take  him  within  your  arms,  and  comfort  him 
Until  his  father  comes. 

ELIZABETH.  Poor  babe,  poor  babe! 

Your  father  nevermore  will  look  on  you, 
And  hug  you  to  his  breast,  and  call  you  his. 
Nay !  shut  your  eyes ! 

[To  MARY.]     O  woman,  take  the  boy! 
I  cannot  bear  to  look  into  those  eyes 
So  like  his  father's!     Hark!  did  you  hear  aught? 

MARY.     Some  one  is  on  the  threshold.     See  who  comes. 

ELIZABETH.     No!     No!     I  dare  not.     Give  me  back  the  child, 


STONEFOLDS  53 

And  open  you  the  door.     Quick,. woman,  quick! 
Surely  strange  fingers  fumble  at  the  latch ! 

[As  she  speaks,  the  door  slowly  opens,  and  STEPHEN  enters 
wearily,  with  faltering  step,  and  groping  like  a  blind 
man.  ELIZABETH  runs  to  meet  him,  but  he  passes  her 
unseeing,  and  walks  towards  the  hearth.} 

ELIZABETH.     Stephen!      [Shrinking  as  he  passes  her.]     It   is 
not  he! 

MARY.  My  son !     My  son ! 

STEPHEN  [speaking  slowly  and  wearily].     Ay,  mother,  are  you 

there  ?     I  cannot  see  you. 
Why  have  you  lit  no  candle  ?     Fetch  a  light. 
This  darkness  hurts  my  eyes.     I  scarce  could  find 
The  track  across  the  fell.     Did  you  forget 
To  set  the  candle  on  the  window-sill? 
Or  maybe  'twas  the  snow  that  hid  the  flame. 
The  master  kept  me  late,  because  my  task 
Was  but  half-done ;  and,  when  I  left  the  school, 
The  snow  was  deep,  and  blew  into  my  eyes, 
Pricking  them  like  hot  needles.     I  was  tired, 
And  hardly  could  win  home,  it  was  so  dark ; 
Yet,  that  strange  darkness  burned  my  eyes  like  fire, 
And  dazzled  them  like  flame,  and  still  they  burn. 
But  why  do  you  sit  lightless?     Fetch  a  light, 
That  I  may  see.     It  must  be  very  late. 
I  seemed  to  wander  through  an  endless  night; 
And  I  am  weary  and  would  go  to  bed. 

MARY.     Son,  sit  you  down.     The  snow  has  blinded  you. 
You  will  see  better  soon. 

[Handing  him  a  pot  from  the  hob.] 
Come,  drink  this  ale; 

It's  hot,  and  will  put  life  in  your  cold  limbs. 
Your  supper  awaits  you ;  you  are  very  late. 

[To  ELIZABETH.] 
Lass,  speak  a  word  to  him ! 

ELIZABETH.  It  is  not  he! 

MARY.     Ay,  lass,  it's  he.     The  snow's  bewildered  hirr ; 
He  dreams  he  is  a  little  lad  again. 
But  speak  you  to  him ;  he  will  know  your  voice. 
Your  word  may  call  his  wits  again  to  him. 

ELIZABETH.     No!     No!     The  night  has  taken  him  from  me. 
This  is  not  he  who  went  out  yesterday, 


54  STONEFOLDS 

My  kiss  upon  his  lips,  to  seek  the.  sheep, 
And  bring  them  into  shelter  from  the  storm. 
My  husband's  eyes  shall  never  look  in  mine 
Again,  nor  his  lips  ever  call  me  wife. 
This  is  not  he ! 

STEPHEN.         Why  do  you  bring  no  light? 
The  darkness  hurts  my  eyes.     Do  you  not  heed  ? 
I  never  knew  such  darkness.     It  is  strange, 
I  feel  the  glow,  yet  cannot  see  the  peats. 

MARY.     Lass,  speak  a  word ! 

ELIZABETH.  Stephen!  .  .  .  He  doesn't  hear  me. 

STEPHEN.     Whom  do  you  speak  with,  mother?     Is  father  back 
Already  from  the  mart  ?     But  I  forget  — 
It  must  be  late;  'twas  dark  ere  I  left  school  — 
So  strangely  dark ;  it  scorched  my  eyes  like  fire. 

MARY.     Son,  don't  you  know  Elizabeth  ? 

STEPHEN.  The  lass 

With  big,  brown  eyes  who  sits  by  me  at  school? 
Ay,  ay,  I  know  her  well ;  but  what  of  her  ? 

MARY.     Do  you  not  know  Elizabeth,  your  wife? 

STEPHEN.     Mother,  I  am  too  weary  for  your  jest ; 
And  my  eyes  hurt  me.     I  would  go  to  sleep. 
Light  me  to  bed.     Why  do  you  bring  no  light  ? 

MARY.     Ah,  God,  that  he  had  slept  to  wake  no  more ! 

ELIZABETH.     What  say  you,  woman ?     Have  you  not  your  son? 
It's  I  have  lost  my  husband,  and  my  babe 
Is  fatherless. 

MARY.  No,  he  may  know  the  babe ! 

You  take  the  boy  and  lay  him  in  his  lap. 
Maybe  his  child  will  bring  him  to  himself. 
Son,  do  you  not  remember  your  poor  babe  ? 

STEPHEN.     My  baby  brother,  Philip?     But  he  died 
So  long  ago ;  what  makes  you  speak  of  him  ? 
Yes,  I  remember  well  the  day  he  died, 
And  how  the  snow  fell  when  they  buried  him. 
The  mare  could  scarce  make  headway  through  the  drifts, 
And  plunged  and  stumbled,  and  the  cart  sank  oft 
Over  the  axle-tree;  and  when,  at  last, 
We  reached  the  church,  the  storm  closed  in  again, 
And  happed  the  little  coffin  in  white  flakes, 
Ere  they  had  laid  it  in  the  grave.     To-night 
'Twas  such  a  storm.     I  must  have  lost  my  way, 
The  night  has  seemed  so  long,  and  I  am  tired. 
Mother,  a  light!     The  darkness  hurts  my  eyes. 


STONEFOLDS  55 

You  do  not  heed. 

MARY.  At  least  you  know  me,  son! 

God  give  you  light,  ay !  even  though  it  blind 
Your  eyes  to  me  forever,  so  that  you 
May  know  your  wife  and  child ! 

ELIZABETH.  My  little  babe ! 

He  has  forgotten  us  and  does  not  love  us. 
The  cruel  night  has  taken  him  from  us. 
Don't  cry,  my  son.     He'll  pay  no  heed  to  you. 
Last  night  your  father  and  my  husband  died. 

STEPHEN.     I  am  so  weary,  mother.     Bring  a  light. 

MARY.     Son,  take  my  hand.     I'll  lead  you  to  your  bed. 
Maybe,  a  healing  sleep  will  make  you  whole, 
And  bring  your  wandering  spirit  home  again. 

ELIZABETH.     No,  no!     It's  I  must  lead  him!     He  is  mine. 
The  night  has  taken  my  husband,  but  the  dawn 
Has  brought  him  back,  a  helpless  child,  to  me. 
He  fumbles  in  the  darkness;  yet,  my  love 
Shall  be  a  light  to  lead  him  to  the  end.  « 

Come,  Stephen,  take  my  hand. 

STEPHEN.  Elizabeth! 

What  are  you  doing  from  home  on  such  a  night? 
You  have  a  gentle  touch ;  I'll  come  with  you. 
It  seems  the  snow  has  blinded  me ;  but  you 
Will  lead  me  safely  through  this  dazzling  dark. 
Come,  lass,  for  I  am  weary,  and  would  sleep. 

MARY  [as  ELIZABETH  and  STEPHEN  pass  out  of  the  room]. 

Ay,  you  must  lead  him  to  the  end.     Though  sleep 
May  heal  his  sight,  it  cannot  heal  his  mind, 
Or  lift  the  deeper  darkness  from  his  soul. 
My  poor,  old  father  lives  again  in  him ; 
And  he,  my  son,  so  young  and  hale,  must  tread 
The  twilight  road  to  death.     Ah  God !     Ah  God ! 
Th rough  me  the  curse  has  fallen  on  my  son! 
Yet,  when  the  madness  on  my  father  fell, 
He  was  a  frail,  old  man,  and  nigher  death; 
And  Stephen  is  so  young  and  full  of  life. 
Nay !     Surely,  it's  the  storm  has  stricken  him ! 
Elizabeth,  your  poor  heart  spoke  too  true: 
The  bitter  night  has  widowed  you,  your  babe 
Is  fatherless,  and  you  must  lead  my  son 
Through  the  bewildering  dark.     But  yesterday 
It  seems  I  guided  his  first  baby  steps! 
Ay,  you  must  lead  him;  you  are  young  and  strong, 


56  STONEFOLDS 

And  I  am  old  and  feeble,  and  my  hand 

Would  fail  him  ere  he  reached  the  journey's  end. 

\Tihe  baby  cries  out,  and  MARY  takes  him  in 
Poor  babe,  poor  babe !     A  bleak  dawn  breaks  for  you ! 

[A  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  threshold.] 

The  seekers  are  returning.     William  comes; 
And  I  must  tell  him  that  his  son  is  home. 


THE  FERRY 

Persons: 

JOHN  TODD,  an  old  ferryman. 
ROBERT  TODD,  his  son. 
JANE  TODD,  Robert's  wife. 

Scene:  The  living-room  of  the  ferry-house  —  a  door  opening  on 
to  the  river-bank,  another  to  the  inner  room.  It  is  evening 
in  early  spring,  and  the  ceaseless  roar  of  the  river  in  flood 
sounds  through  the  room.  JOHN,  seated  at  a  cobbler's  bench, 
works  by  candle-light.  JANE,  corning  from  the  inner  room, 
takes  a  chair  to  the  fireside,  and  sits  down  with  her  knitting. 
The  outer  door  opens,  and  ROBERT  enters. 

ROBERT.     The  river's  in  full-spate. 

JANE.  Ay,  how  it  roars! 

JOHN  [looking  up  from  his  work].     The  snow  has  melted  on 
the  fells. 

JANE.  That  wind 

Will  puff  the  candle  out.     Lad,  shut  the  door. 

JOHN.     It's    fresh,    and    smells    of    spring.     'Twas    such    a 
night.  .  .  . 

ROBERT.     Wife,  I'll  away  down  to  the  Traveller's  Rest. 

JANE.     Well,  don't  be  late. 

JOHN.  But  what  about  the  boat? 

ROBERT.     The  boat  is  safe  enough;  I've  made  her  fast. 

JOHN.     Ay,  lad,  but  what  if  any  one  should  hail, 
And  you  not  here  to  answer  to  their  call? 
I  cannot  take  the  oars ;  you  know  that  wall. 

ROBERT.     The  devil  himself  could  never  cross  to-night ; 
That  water  is  too  big.  [Goes  out.] 

JOHN.  'Twas  such  a  night 

That  Margaret  hailed,  and  did  not  hail  in  vain. 
I  did  not  fear  the  flood. 

JANE.  You  cannot  hear 

How  loud  it  roars.     Your  ears  are  dull  with  age. 
You  could  not  cross  to-night. 

57 


58  STONEFOLDS 

JOHN.  If  Margaret  called, 

Old  as  I  am,  I'd  take  the  oars  my  hands 
Have  touched  not  these  long  years.     If  Margaret  called  — 
But  she  will  call  no  more.  [Bends  over  his  ivork.~\ 

JANE.  You  could  not  cross. 

JOHN.     I  would  that  Robert  had  not  gone  to-night. 

JANE.     Why,  he's  a  steady  lad ;  there's  little  harm. 

JOHN.     Ay,  lass ;  and  yet,  I  wish  he  had  not  gone. 
If  any  one  should  hail,  and  he  not  here! 

JANE.     No  one  will  hail  to-night. 

JOHN.  'Twas  such  a  night 

That  Margaret  hailed. 

JANE.  'Twas  cruel  madness  then. 

JOHN.     She  knew  that  I  would  come. 

JANE.  More  shame  to  her 

That  she  should  call  you  to  nigh-certain  death ! 

JOHN.     How  can  you  speak  of  Robert's  mother  so! 
She  knew  my  arm  was  strong.     She  came  that  night 
Home  from  the  city,  after  many  years. 
She  stood  upon  the  bank  and  called  my  name, 
And  I,  above  the  roar  of  waters,  heard, 
And  took  the  oars  and  crossed  to  her,  though  twice 
The  river  caught  me  in  its  swirl,  and  strove 
To  sweep  me  to  the  dam.     But  I  was  strong, 
And  reached  the  other  bank ;  and  in  she  stepped, 
And  never  seemed  to  think  of  fear.     Her  eyes 
Were  on  me,  and  I  rowed  her  home,  though  death 
Clutched  at  the  boat,  and  sought  to  drag  us  down ; 
For  I  was  young  and  strong.     That  May  we  wed ; 
And  by  the  next  spring-floods  the  boy  was  born, 
And  she  lay  dead  —  and  I,  so  young  and  strong! 
My  strength  that  brought  her  through  the  roaring  spate 
Could  not  hold  back  that  silent-ebbing  life. 

[Bends  over  his  work.] 
JANE.     Yes,  I  have  heard  the  story  many  times. 

[Silence  falls  on   the  room  save  for  the  roar  of  the  river. 
After  a  while,  JOHN  lifts  his  head  as  though  listening.] 

JOHN.     Hark!     What  is  that? 

JANE.  It's  nothing  but  the  flood. 

JOHN  [still  listening].     She  calls! 


STONEFOLDS  59 

JANE.  Who  calls? 

JOHN.  Do  you  hear  naught? 

JANE.  Nay, 'naught. 

There's  naught  to  hear  —  only  the  river's  roar. 

[JOHN  bends  again  over  his  work,  and  is  silent  for  a  while; 
but  often  lifts  his  head  as  though  listening.  At  last  he 
speaks.] 

JOHN.     Can  you  hear  naught,  lass?     Some  one  hails  the  boat. 

JANE.     It's  but  your  fancy.     How  could  you  hear  aught 
With  your  deaf  ears,  when  I  can  scarcely  catch 
My  needles'  click  —  the  river  roars  so  loud ! 

JOHN.     I  heard  a  voice. 

JANE.  I  tell  you  it  was  naught. 

No  voice  could  cross  that  flood.     If  any  called, 
That  roar  would  drown  their  cry.     You  could  not  hear. 
But  no  one  would  be  fool  enough  to  call  ,  - . 

On  such  a  night  as  this. 

JOHN.  I  heard  a  voice. 

I  would  that  Robert  had  not  gone  to-night.  .  .  . 

JANE.     What  could  he  do  if  he  were  here? 

JOHN.  I  crossed 

On  such  a  night. 

JANE.  Ay,  ay,  but  Robert's  wed. 

JOHN  [starting  up].     Hark,  hark,  she  calls!     I  hear  the  voice 
again. 

JANE    [rising  and  laying  a  hand  on  his  arm].     Nay,   father! 

Sit  thee  down.     There's  no  one  calls. 
Your  memory  tricks  you.     It's  the  river's  roar 
That  rings  in  your  old  head,  and  mazes  you. 

[JOHN  sits  down  again  at  his  bench.] 

It  sounds  as  though  it  sought  to  drag  the  banks 
Along  with  it  —  and  all !  You'd  almost  think 
That  it  was  round  the  house ! 

[Goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it  and  looks  out.] 

How  fierce  and  black 

Among  the  rocks  it  threshes  'neath  the  moon ! 
It  makes  me  shudder  though  we're  high  and  dry. 

[Closes  the  door.] 


6o  STONEFOLDS 

JOHN.     Did  you  see  no  one  on  the  other  bank? 

JANE.     No  one  was  there  to  see.     Who  should  there  be? 

[JOHN  bends  again  over  his  work ;  then  stops,  and  sits  gazing 
into  the  fire,  still  listening.] 

JOHN  [rising  and  speaking  slowly].     Lass,  some  one  hails  the 

boat ;  and  I  must  go, 
For  Robert  is  not  here. 

JANE   [rising  too,  and  holding  him  by  the  arm  as  he  turns  to- 
wards the  door.]     You  go!     You  go! 
What  would  you  do,  you  poor,  old  crazy  man  ? 
'Twould  break  you  like  a  straw ! 

JOHN.  Yes,  I  am  old ; 

But  Robert  is  not  here. 

JANE.  If  he  were  here 

He  could  do  naught.     The  flood  would  crush  the  boat 
Like  any  eggshell ! 

JOHN.  Robert  should  be  here. 

Hark,  hark,  the  voice  again !     Lass,  I  must  go. 

[He  tries  to  move  towards  the  door,  but  JANE  takes  him  by 
the  arms  and  forces  him  back  into  his  seat.] 

JANE.     You  crazed,  old  man!     Sit  down.     What  would  you 

do? 

You  need  not  hurry  to  your  death ;  fear  not, 
'Twill  come  ere  you  are  ready !     Sit  you  down. 
You're  feeble  in  my  hands  as  any  babe. 
What  could  you  do  against  that  raging  flood  ? 

JOHN.     Yes,  I  am  weak,  who  once  was  young  and  strong. 
But  Robert  should  be  here. 

JANE.  I'll  fetch  him  home. 

If  you'll  sit  quiet  till  I  come  again. 

[JOHN  gazes  silently  into  the  fire,  then  closes  his  eyes  as  if 
asleep.] 

JANE.     He's  quiet  now;  the  silly  fit  has  passed. 
Yet,  I  will  go  for  Robert.     It  were  best 
That  he  should  come.     I  think  I  should  go  crazed 
Betwixt  the  flood  and  his  fond,  doting  talk. 
I  fear  I  don't  know  what.     It's  that  old  man 
Has  filled  me  with  his  fancies;  but  he  sleeps 


STONEFOLDS  61 

Sound  as  a  babe.     I'll  go  for  Robert  now, 
And  be  back  ere  he  wakes. 

[Throws  a  shawl  over  her  head,  and  goes  out  softly,  closing 
the  door  behind  her.  JOHN  sits  for  a  while  with  his  eyes 
still  shut;  then  starts  up  suddenly,  and  stands  listening.] 

JOHN.  She  calls!     She  calls! 

[Moves  to  the  door  and  throws  it  open.] 
I  come!     I  come! 

[Shading  his  eyes  with*his  hand  and  gazing  into  the  night.] 

She  awaits  me  on  the  bank, 
Beyond  the  raging  waters,  in  the  light. 
Margaret,  I  come! 

[He  goes  out,  leaving  the  door  open.  The  clank  of  a  chain 
being  unloosed  is  heard;  then  nothing  save  the  thresh  of 
the  river.  Some  moments  pass;  then  voices  are  heard  on 
the  threshold.] 

ROBERT  [outside].     The  door  is  open,  lass. 
You  should  not  leave  it  so. 

JANE  [entering].  I  shut  it  close. 

Father!     He  is  not  here!     He's  gone! 

ROBERT.  Gone  where? 

JANE.     Robert,  the  boat!  the  boat!      [They  rush  out  together.] 

ROBERT  [his  voice  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  waters],  "The 

boat's  gone  too! 
Quick,  to  the  dam! 

JANE  [as  they  pass  the  door].     He  seemed  to  sleep  so  sound. 

[The  candle  gutters  out  in  the  draught  from  the  open  door, 
and  nothing  is  heard  but  the  noise  of  the  waters.] 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Persons: 

PHILIP  RIDLEY,  a  young  shepherd. 
ALICE  RIDLEY,  his  bride. 
ELLEN  HALL,  an  elderly  woman. 

Scene:  Cragshields,  a  cottage  on  the  fells.  Through  a  little  win- 
dow to  one  side  of  the  hearth  a  far-off  lough  is  seen,  glitter- 
ing in  the  April  sunshine.  Now  and  again,  the  call  of  the 
curlew  is  heard.  PHILIP  RIDLEY  and  his  wife  are  seated  at 
breakfast  near  the  open  door. 

ALICE.     No  more  of  love,  lad !     We  are  wedded  folk 
With  work  to  do,  and  little  time  enough 
To  earn  our  bread  in ;  and  must  put  away 
Such  lovers'  folly. 

PHILIP.  Can  you  say  so,  lass, 

Hearing  the  curlew  pipe  down  every  slack! 
Their  mating-call  runs  rippling  through  my  blood. 
Hark,  do  you  hear  how  shrill  and  sweet  it  is! 
Does  it  stir  naught  in  you  ?     You  have  no  heart 
If  that  can  leave  you  cold  which  thrills  me  through 
Till  every  vein's  a-tingle. 

ALICE.  Shut  the  door, 

And  sup  your  porridge  ere  it  cools.     You  know 
Even  the  curlew  cannot  live  on  love. 
He's  a  wise  bird,  and  soon  will  sober  down. 
He  courts  but  in  due  season,  and  his  voice 
Keeps  not  the  wooing  note  the  whole  year  long. 
So  must  we  settle  down,  lad.     Do  you  think 
Old  William  Hall  and  his  goodwife  who  dwelt, 
For  sixty  years,  together  in  this  house, 
Before  our  coming,  as  the  neighbours  tell, 
Lived  like  young  lovers  through  so  many  years? 

PHILIP.     But  we've  not  mated,  lass,  as  curlew  mate; 
Our  love  shall  know  no  season.     I  have  heard 
That  William  and  his  wife  were  hard  and  cold, 
62 


STONEFOLDS  63 

And  seldom  spoke  save  with  a  bitter  tongue. 

ALICE.     And  yet,  they  dwelt  beneath  this  very  roof 
Together  sixty  years  —  as  we  may  dwell ! 
They  must  have  wed  as  young  as  we,  and  come 
Home  to  this  hearth  as  full  of  foolish  hope. 
I  shudder  when  I  think  of  those  long  years. 

PHILIP.     Don't  think  of  them,  for  they  are  naught  to  you. 

ALICE.     Had  they  no  children,  then? 

PHILIP.  But  one,  a  lass ; 

And  she  was  led  astray.     They  cast  her  out, 
And  barred  the  door  upon  her  one  wild  night; 
And  what  became  of  her  none  ever  knew. 
The  neighbours  ne'er  heard  tell  of  her  again. 

ALICE.     I  wonder  if  she  lives,  poor  soul !     And  yet, 
I'd  bar  the  door  on  any  child  of  mine.  .  .  . 

PHILIP.     You  wouldn't,  Alice.     You  don't  know  your  heart. 
We'll  speak  no  more  of  them.     The  past  is  past, 
And  throws  no  shadow  on  our  lives;  no  ghost 
Of  old  unhappiness  shall  haunt  our  home. 
The  years  hold  no  such  bitterness  for  us  ; 
And  naught  shall  come  between  us  and  our  love. 

ALICE.     Now  you  are  at  your  foolish  talk !     It's  time 
That  you  were  with  the  sheep.     If  you  have  naught 
To  turn  your  hand  to,  I  have  more  to  do 
Than  may  be  done  ere  bedtime.     Shift  your  seat 
Till  I  have  cleared  the  table,  lad.  • 

PHILIP.  No,  lass, 

I  must  away ;  but,  ere  I  go,  one  kiss 
To  keep  my  heart  up  through  the  morning! 

ALICE.  Go, 

You  foolish  lad !     You're  still  a  boy. 

PHILIP.  Time  mends 

The  folly  that  is  youth  —  if  it  be  folly 
To  live  and  love  in  happiness  and  hope; 
For  we  are  young  but  once;  and,  as  you  say, 
We  have  full  sixty  years  in  which  to  grow 
Wise,  cold  and  crabbed,  if  we  should  live  as  long 
As  William  and  his  wife. 

[To  his  collie.]     Down,  Nelly,  down! 
I  will  be  back  ere  noonday. 

[Goes  out,  closing  the  door  behind  him.] 

ALICE.  Sixty  years! 

It's  a  long  while  to  dwell  in  bitterness. 


64  STONEFOLDS 

I  wonder  if  they  ever  loved  as  we 
When  they  were  young.     Maybe  they  did,  until 
Their  daughter's  trouble  soured  their  hearts  —  and  yet, 
Surely,  if  they  had  loved!  .  .  .  Ah,  well,  the  years 
Must  bring  what  they  will  bring,  and  we  abide 
The  winter,  though  it  freeze  the  springs  of  love. 

[She  turns  to  her  work  of  scrubbing  and  siueeping.  After  a 
while,  the  door  opens  noiselessly;  and  ELLEN  HALL 
stands  on  the  threshold,  unseen  of  ALICE,  who  is  bend- 
ing over  the  hearth.] 

ELLEN  [gazing  about  her  absently].     The  dresser  stood  against 
the  other  wall. 

[Seeing  ALICE,  who  looks  up  suddenly  in  amazement.] 

Forgive  me  that  I  did  not  knock.     So  long 

I  raised  this  latch  a  dozen  times  a  day, 

Undreaming  that  the  hour  would  ever  come 

When  I  should  need  to  knock,  that,  when,  once  more, 

I  stood  upon  the  threshold,  I  forgot 

The  years  that  stood  between  me  and  my  home, 

And  that  I  came  a  stranger  to  this  house. 

Forgive  me.  .  .  . 

ALICE.  Nay,  come  in,  and  take  a  seat. 

We  are  newcomers  to  these  parts.  .  .  . 

ELLEN.  Had  you 

Been  born  and  'bred  within  a  mile  or  so, 
You  would  not  know  me,  lass ;  for  you  are  young ; 
And  it  is  forty  years  since  I  left  home. 
But  you  shall  know  me  ere  I  take  a  seat 
Beneath  your  roof.     If  you  will  ask  me  then.  .  .  . 
You  start  at  that!     I  see  that  you  have  heard 
My  tale  already.     I  am  Ellen  Hall, 
The  outcast  whom  the  neighbours  told  you  of. 
But  I  must  go.     Forgive  me  that  I  brought 
My  shadow  in  your  house.     I  meant  no  harm. 
I  only  wished  to  see  my  home  once  more. 

ALICE.     Nay,  nay,  come  in,  and  rest;  for  you  are  tired. 
You  must  not  go  with  neither  bite  nor  sup. 
I'll  set  the  kettle  on  the  bar.  .  .  . 

ELLEN.  Nay,  lass, 

I  will  not  eat  nor  drink,  but  I  would  rest 


STONEFOLDS  65 

A  little  while,  for  my  old  feet  have  found 
The  fell-road  long  and  heavy,  though  my  heart 
Grew  young  again,  breathing  the  upland  air. 
Let  me  not  hinder  you:  just  do  your  work 
As  though  I  were  not  here.     I'll  not  bide  long. 

[After  a  pause.] 
Lass,  do  you  love  your  man  ? 

ALICE.  I  wedded  him. 

ELLEN.     Though  your  reproof  be  bitter,  it  is  just; 
But  I  have  lived  so  long  on  bitter  words 
That  I,  long  since,  have  lost  the  taste  of  them. 
I  did  not  speak  the  word  in  wantonness ; 
For  as  I  look  upon  you  where  you  stand 
In  your  fresh  bloom  of  youth,  old  memories  stir 
Within  me;  for  your  eyes  are  kind.     My  heart 
That  has  not  spoken  out  so  many  years 
A  moment  longed  to  tell  its  tale  to  you, 
The  tale  it  never  told  to  any  heart ; 
But  it  shall  keep  its  silence  to  the  end, 
For  you  are  proud  and  happy  in  your  youth, 
As  I  was  proud  and  happy  once.     Ay,  lass, 
Even  I  was  young  and  comely  in  my  time  — 
Though  you  may  smile  to  hear  it  now,  as  then 
I  should  have  smiled.  .  .  .  Nay,  lass,  I  do  not  blame  you! 
Forgive  a  lonely  woman,  frail  and  old, 
Whom  years  and  grief  have  brought  to  foolishness. 

ALICE.     Nay,  nay,  I  didn't  smile.     I'd  hear  your  tale 
If  you  would  tell  it  me.     'Twill  ease  your  heart 
To  pour  its  sorrow  in  another's  ear. 
But  if  you  would  keep  silence,  breathe  no  word. 
Yet,  bide  till  you  are  rested. 

ELLEN.  Thank  you,  lass. 

A  silence  that  has  lasted  forty  years 
May  not  be  broken  in  a  breathing  space. 
It  isn't  easy,  speaking;  yet,  I'll  speak 
Because  your  eyes  are  kind,  and  nevermore 
Shall  look  upon  me  when  the  tale  is  told. 
I  haven't  much  to  tell,  for  you  have  heard 
The  neighbours'  talk ;  and  yet,  lass,  none  may  know 
The  heart's  true  story  save  the  heart  itself ; 
And  they  who  speak,  not  knowing  the  full  truth, 
May  twist  on  idle  tongues  unwittingly 
What  little  of  the  truth  is  theirs.     You  know 


66  STONEFOLDS 

It  was  my  sin,  as  folk  account  it  sin, 

To  love  beyond  my  station  —  ay,  to  love 

Unquestioning,  undoubting,  unafraid  — 

To  love  with  the  fierce  faith  and  simple  might 

And  courage  of  a  young  girl's  innocence. 

In  sweet,  blind  trustfulness  and  happy  pride, 

As  many  a  maid  has  loved,  nor  lived  to  rue. 

Yet,  I  don't  blame  him:  he  was  passion's  fool  — 

Ay,  one  of  those  from  whom  hard  fate  withholds 

The  wonder  and  the  tenderness  of  love  — 

Though  I  believed  he  loved  me  as  I  loved, 

And  as  I  love  him  yet  —  ay,  even  yet ! 

Blindly  I  loved  him  —  blinded  by  the  light 

Of  my  own  love,  my  love  that  still.  .  .  .  But  you, 

Unless  you  love,  you  will  not  understand ; 

For  only  love  brings  knowledge.     You  have  heard 

How,  when  he  left  me,  I  was  turned  from  home. 

Abandoned  in  my  trouble,  I  was  thrust 

On  the  cold  mercy  of  a  winter  night. 

This  very  door  was  barred  against  my  woe  — 

I  still  can  hear  that  bolt  shot  after  me  — 

Although  I  never  turned.     Nay,  speak  no  word! 

I  crave  no  pity ;  for  I  loved,  and  love 

Brooks  no  compassion  from  a  happier  heart. 

And  I  remember  little  of  that  night  ; 

It  scarcely  seemed  to  matter  when  so  much 

Was  gone  from  me  that  all  should  go.     To  me 

My  parents  had  been  ever  shrewd  and  harsh 

As  to  each  other.     They  had  never  known 

The  tenderness  of  love ;  for  they  had  wed 

In  wanton  passion  which  had  left  them  cold, 

To  live  for  sixty  years  on  bitter  words; 

For  they  were  over  eighty  when  both  died, 

As  though  they  had  been  lovers,  on  one  day. 

Spare  all  the  fresh  young  pity  of  your  heart 

For  those  whom  chance  has  tethered  without  love 

To  tread  together  the  same  path  of  life 

Till  death  release  them. 

ALICE.  Did  you  ne'er  return? 

ELLEN.     Love's  outcasts  don't  come  back. 

ALICE.  Might  not  the  years 

Have  softened  their  hard  hearts?     They  would  relent.  .  .  . 

ELLEN.     Time  brings  no  understanding  without  love; 
Love  cannot  spring  from  barrenness;  the  soil 


STONEFOLDS  67 

That  does  not  quicken  to  the  breath  of  spring 
Will  bear  no  blade  of  green  in  winter  days. 
I  pitied  them;  and,  had  my  .child  but  lived, 
I  had  forgiven  them  with  all  my  heart. 

ALICE.     Ah!  they  were  cruel!  but  you,  what  could  you  do? 

ELLEN.     I  lived  —  but  not  as  idle  tongues  have  lied. 
I  loved  him,  lass ;  and  if  your  heart  is  true 
To  love,  'twill  know  that  I  speak  truly.     Yet, 
What  can  the  happy  know  of  love !     O  lass, 
You  are  too  fresh  and  fair  to  have  known  love! 

ALICE.     Yet,  I  love  Philip. 

ELLEN.  Nay,  you  cannot  love! 

They  don't  know  love  who  have  not  starved  for  love, 
And  worked  their  fingers  to  the  bone  for  love, 
And  lived  for  love,  without  love's  recompense, 
Death  holding  within  easy  reach  the  while 
The  escape  and  solace  of  forgetfulness. 
Still,  you  may  love  —  for,  even  unto  me, 
Love  once  was  happiness.     Forgive  me,  lass ; 
It  is  so  long  since  I  knew  happiness. 
You  have  not  idle  hands;  but  then  you  toil 
For  him  you  love  and  who  loves  you  again, 
While  I  have  laboured  only  for  my  love 
Of  him  who  never  loved  me,  and  to  whom 
I  was  a  broken  trinket,  cast  aside, 
Forgotten,  for  he  wedded  years  ago. 
Forgive  me,  if  I  weary  you ;  so  long 
My  heart  has  brooded  in  its  solitude 
On  all  these  things,  oft  shaping  them  to  words 
For  its  own  comfort  —  for  even  words  give  ease 
To  aching  and  intolerable  thought  — 
Although  it  could  not  utter  them  aloud, 
That,  now  they  find  a  vent,  they  teem,  a  spate 
Enough  to  drown  your  patience. 

ALICE.      .  Nay,  speak  on. 

ELLEN.     I  have  dwelt  long  in  grey  and  narrow  streets, 
A  stranger  among  strangers,  where  men  snatch 
A  starveling  living  from  each  other's  clutch ; 
Ay,  I  have  toiled  in  cities  where  men  grind 
Their  brothers'  bones  for  bread,  where  life  is  naught 
But  labour  and  starvation  to  the  end. 
Lass,  may  your  kind  eyes  never  need  to  grow, 
As  mine  have  grown,  accustomed  to  the  sight 
Of  the  evil  and  the  wretchedness  and  want 


68  STONEFOLDS 

That  huddle  in  dark  alleys ;  yet  even  there 
Love  shines,  though  cooped  in  stifling  misery, 
A  candle  in  a  garret.     To  the  poor, 
Life  is  not  easy  underneath  the  sun, 
But  in  the  dark  and  reeking  city  ways 
It's  more  relentless,  grim  and  terrible  — 
The  endless  struggle.     Lass,  I  never  thought 
To  look  upon  the  hills  of  home  again, 
Or  tread  the  ling,  or  breathe  the  living  air 
That  I  had  breathed,  a  heedless  child ;  but  when 
By  chance  I  heard  my  parents  both  were  gone 
To  where  the  shadow  of  a  daughter's  shame 
Might  never  vex  their  slumber,  my  heart  yearned 
To  gaze  once  more  o'er  the  familiar  fells 
Where  I  had  first  found  love.     So  I  set  out, 
Hoping  to  come  and  go  ere  the  new  herd 
Should  take  possession.     As  I  crossed  the  crags, 
I  saw  the  smoke  curl  o'er  the  chimney-stack, 
And  knew  I  came  too  late. 

ALICE.  Nay,  not  too  late! 

You  have  not  come  too  late ! 

ELLEN.  I  nigh  turned  back. 

I  had  not  meant  to  cross  the  threshold-stone ; 
But  as  I  climbed  the  brae-top,  and  looked  forth 
Over  the  sweep  of  bent  and  heath,  and  breathed 
The  morning  air,  and  gazed  upon  the  loughs. 
A-shimmer  in  the  sun,  and  heard  the  call 
Of  curlew  down  the  slacks,  and  felt  the  spring 
Of  heather  under-foot,  I  —  who  had  thought 
So  little  of  these  things  when  I  had  lived, 
A  careless  lass,  among  them,  but  had  come 
To  hanker  after  them  in  city  streets  — 
Was  filled  with  strange  forgetfulness,  and  moved 
As  in  a  trance,  scarce  knowing  what  I  did, 
Till  I  had  raised  the  latch,  and  saw  your  eyes 
In  wonder  fixed  on  mine.     But  I  must  go 
Before  your  man  comes  in. 

ALICE.  No,  you  must  bide. 

This  is  your  home.     You  must  not  go  again 
Back  to  the  city.     You  are  old  and  weak ; 
And  I  and  Philip  are  both  young  and  strong 
To  work  for  you,  if  you  will  live  with  us. 

ELLEN.     With  all  my  heart  I  thank  you,  lass,  and  yet, 
I  may  not  bide.     Though  I  am  old  and  weak, 


STONEFOLDS  69 

I  would  tread  out  my  pathway  to  the  end. 

It  is  too  late,  too  late  to  turn  aside ; 

Nor  would  I  if  I  could,  since  I  have  fared 

So  far  along  the  solitary  way. 

I  could  not  rest  at  ease  in  idleness. 

Yet,  I  shall  go  to  take  up  work  again 

With  kindlier  memories  of  my  home,  and  when. 

Once  more  the  narrow  alleys  on  me  close, 

I  shall  remember  some  one  living  here 

Whom  love  has  given  understanding.     Life 

Be  good  to  you  —  yes,  I  can  wish  you  this, 

Though  you  have  all  that  life  withheld  from  me. 

I  don't  know  what  the  future  holds,  and  yet, 

Whatever  may  befall  you,  this  is  sure : 

You  shall  not  know  the  utmost  bitterness  ; 

Life  cannot  be  all  barren,  having  love. 

From  the  full  knowledge  of  my  heart  I  speak 

As  one  who  through  the  perilous  night  has  come 

To  you,  upon  the  threshold  of  your  day, 

The  dawnlight  on  your  brow.     Lass,  fare  you  well ! 

ALICE.     Farewell!  and  yet,  I  grieve  that  you  should  go 
Back  to  the  struggle  who  have  brought  to  me 
The  secret  you  have  wrung  from  life. 

[Kissing  her.]      Farewell! 
You  have  revealed  to  me  my  happiness. 

ELLEN.     Your  kiss  brings  comfort,  daughter.     Fare  you  well! 

[She  goes  out,  and  ALICE  stands  in  the  doorway,  gazing  after 
her  for  a  while.  Presently  a  gate  clashes  hard  by,  and 
PHILIP  approaches.] 

PHILIP.     What  do  you  look  on,  lass  —  so  rare  a  light 
Burns  in  your  deep,  brown  eyes!     What  do  you  see? 
Have  you  been  listening  to  the  curlew's  call  ? 

ALICE.     No :  I  have  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  past ; 
And  my  eyes  look  down  all  the  happy  years 
That  you  and  I  must  travel,  side  by  side. 

1906. 


DAILY  BREAD 

(1908-1^09) 


All  life  moving  to  one  measure  — 
Daily  bread,  daily  bread  — 
Bread  of  life,  and  bread  of  labour, 
Bread  of  bitterness  and  sorrow, 
Hand-to-mouth,  and  no  to-morrow, 
Dearth  for  housemate,  death  for  neighbour 

yet,  when  all  the  babes  are  fed, 

Love,  are  there  not  crumbs  to  treasure?  " 


TO 

JANE  HAY 


SAINT  ABB'S  HAVEN, 
1908. 


As  one,  at  midnight,  wakened  by  the  call 

Of  golden-plovers  in  their  seaward  flight, 

Who  lies  and  listens,  as  the  clear  notes  fall 

Through  tingling  quiet  of  the  frosty  night  — 

Who  lies  and  listens,  till  the  wild  notes  fail ; 

And  then,  in  fancy,  following  the  flock 

Fares  over  slumbering  hill  and  dreaming  dale, 

Until  he  hears  the  su.rf  on  reef  and  rock 

Break,  thundering ;  and  all  sense  of  self  is  drowned 

Within  the  mightier  music  of  the  deep, 

And  he  no  more  recalls  the  piping  sound 

That  startled  him  from  dull,  undreaming  sleep: 

So  I,  first  waking  from  oblivion,  heard, 

With  heart  that  kindled  to  the  call  of  song, 

The  voice  of  young  life,  fluting  like  a  bird, 

And  echoed  that  wild  piping ;  till,  ere  long, 

Lured  onward  by  that  happy,  singing-flight, 

I  caught  the  stormy  summons  of  the  sea, 

And  dared  the  restless  deeps  that,  day  and  night, 

Surge  with  the  life-song  of  humanity. 


DAILY  BREAD 

THE  HOUSE  OF  CANDLES 


Scene:  GRISEL  STARK'S  cottage.  GRISEL  STARK  lies  uncon- 
scious on  the  bed.  Two  neighbours,  BARBARA  WILSON  and 
REBECCA  WOOD,  stand  watching  her,  and  whispering  together. 

BARBARA.     The  house  was  dark; 
And  so  I  knew,  at  once, 
That  something  was  amiss. 

REBECCA.     The  house  was  dark? 

BARBARA.     No  blink  of  light 
The  window  showed  — 

The  window  that  had  blazed,  each  night,  for  years. 
I  stood  a  moment,  wondering,  at  my  door; 
And  then  I  crossed  the  roadway, 
And  listened  on  the  threshold, 
Before  I  dared  to  knock; 
Though  what  I  feared 
I  could  not  tell. 
It  seemed  so  strange 
To  find  the  house  in  darkness  — 
No  candles  in  the  window, 
And  not  a  glimmer  'neath  the  door. 
And  when  with  quaking  heart 
At  last  I  knocked 
And  no  one  answered  me, 
I  raised  the  latch 
And  entered. 

The  room  was  dark  and  silent  — 
So  silent  that  I  felt 
As  though  I'd  stumbled  suddenly 
Into  the  house  of  death. 
The  fire  was  out, 
And  not  a  candle  lit; 

75 


76  DAILY  BREAD 

And  you  know  how  the  candles  blazed, 
Night-long,  these  many  years. 

REBECCA.     She  must  have  burned  a  fortune  out  in  candles. 

BARBARA.     And  when,  at  last, 
I'd  fumbled  for  the  matches, 
And  struck  a  light, 
It  only  served  to  show 
The  candlesticks  burnt  empty; 
And  naught  I  saw  of  Grisel, 
Before  it  flickered  out, 
Although  I  felt  her  in  the  room, 
And  feared  lest  I  should  touch  her 
In  the  dark. 

And  so  I  ran  to  fetch  my  lamp, 
And,  in  its  friendly  light, 
I  looked  about  me  with  a  braver  heart 
And  quickly  found  her 
Stretched  before  the  hearth. 
At  first  I  thought  her  dead, 
And  shrank  from  her ; 
For  she  was  ever  cold  and  proud  with  all, 
And  I  had  never  touched  her  hand  before. 
And,  as  I  looked  on  that  lean  hand  outstretched, 
I  wondered  if  that  hand 
Had  done  the  thing  — 
The  thing  that  gossip  told  of  it, 
When  first  she  came  to  Morton. 
It  frightened  me; 
And,  as  I  watched, 
I  seemed  to  see  the  fingers  crooking 
To  clutch  a  baby's  throat; 
And  yet  I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  them, 
Until  I  realised 

That  only  in  my  fancy  they  had  stirred. 
For  still  the  hand  lay,  limp  and  white; 
And  soon  I  was  myself  again, 
And  pity  drove  out  fear; 
And  bending  down  to  lift  that  fallen  head 
I  found  that  still  she  breathed. 
I  loosed  her  bodice; 
Then  I  fetched  my  man ; 
And  we  together  lifted  her, 
And  laid  her  on  the  bed  — 
It  took  us  all  our  time; 


DAILY  BREAD  77 

For,  though  she  is  so  slight, 

She  was  a  dead-weight  in  our  hands, 

As  though  we  lifted  more  than  one  weak  body  — 

As  if  some  dreadful  burden  bore  her  down. 

REBECCA.     God  knows  what  sins  are  on  her! 
How  dared  you  touch  her,  neighbour? 
'Twas  madness,  surely. 

BARBARA.     I  could  not  leave  her  lying  helpless. 
And,  maybe,  she  is  innocent. 
We  know  that  babes  die  often, 
Though  only  God  knows  why. 
My  firstborn,  Robert,  died.  .  .  . 

REBECCA.     The  innocent  are  not  afraid  of  darkness, 
Nor  waste  a  heifer's  price 
On  candles  in  a  twelvemonth. 

BARBARA.     She  never  stirred, 
When  we  had  laid  her  on  the  bed ; 
And  nothing  I  could  do  would  rouse  her. 
I  sent  my  man  to  fetch  the  doctor ; 
But  he  can  scarcely  come 
Ere  daybreak,  even  if  my  man 
Should  chance  to  find  him  in. 
'Twere  dreadful,  should  she  die, 
Before  the  doctor  comes. 

REBECCA.     If  she's  to  die,  she'll  die 
Whether  he  comes  or  not. 
It's  strange  that  such  as  she 
Should  have  an  easy  end. 

BARBARA.     O  neighbour,  you  are  hard! 
What  would  you  have? 

REBECCA.     A  murderer.  .  .  . 

BARBARA.     Nay,  you  shall  not  in  this  house! 
Nothing  was  known. 

REBECCA.     But  you  yourself  have  said, 
These  many  times.  .  .  . 
I  heard  it  from  your  lips. 

BARBARA.     Perhaps  we  have  all  wronged  her. 
May  she  not  be  as  innocent 
Of  her  poor  baby's  death, 
As  it.  ... 

REBECCA.     As  it!     How  can  you  tell 
That  even  it  was  innocent? 

BARBARA.     The  babe! 

REBECCA.     A  bastard  brat, 


78  DAILY  BREAD 

You  may  be  sure! 

Else,  where  is  her  goodman? 

A  woman's  not  worth  much 

Who  comes,  alone,  from  God  knows  where, 

To  a  strange  village,  and  sets  up  a  house, 

Where  she,  within  a  month,  is  brought  to  bed ; 

And  cannot  name  the  father  of  her  child. 

BARBARA.     Cannot?     How  do  you  know? 
Has  she  told  aught  to  you  ? 

REBECCA.    To  me! 
Nay,  not  a  word ; 
For  she  was  ever  close. 
But  you  know  well  enough, 
No  man  was  ever  seen  to  cross  her  threshold, 
By  day  at  all  events. 

God  knows  what  moths  her  candles  singed! 
Had  she  been  all  she  should  be, 
What  need  for  secrecy? 
Her  silence  proves  her  guilt; 
And  her  dead  brat.  .  .  . 

BARBARA.     A  babe  is  still  a  babe, 
Whoever  be  its  father. 

REBECCA.  Ay  ...  and  yet 
She  hadn't  too  much  love  for  it, 
To  throttle  .  .  . 

BARBARA.     Nay,  you  shall  not,  neighbour,  here! 

REBECCA.    Why  not? 
It's  common  knowledge. 
You  know,  as  well  as  I  do, 
How  all  the  village  whispered, 
When  it  died, 
That  she  had  strangled  it. 

BARBARA.     Still,  naught  was  known. 

REBECCA.     Why,  I  have  heard  you  speak  the  thing 
Right  out  with  your  own  lips, 
In  Farmer  Thompson's  field, 
And  Grisel  hoeing  not  ten  yards  away! 

BARBARA.     But  I  was  young  and  thoughtless, 
And  I've  borne  children  of  my  own 
Since  then  .  .  . 
And  seen  my  firstborn  die. 
Oh,  when  we're  young,  we're  hard  of  heart, 
Till  we  ourselves  have  felt 
A  baby's  fingers  clutching  at  the  breast. 


DAILY  BREAD  79 

REBECCA.     Ah,  who  is  hard  and  cruel  now  ? 
You  twit  me  that  I'm  barren, 
And  yet,  I  thank  the  Lord 
That  I'm  not  such  as  she 
Whom  you  befriend. 
Although  I  brought  my  man  no  child, 
At  least  I  bore  no  nameless  children. 

BARBARA.     Forgive  my  heedless  words! 
You  will  not,  neighbour? 
It's  ever  careless  words  that  hurt  past  healing. 
The  thought  of  me 
Will  rankle  in  your  heart, 
Because  my  heart, 
That  bears  no  grudge  against  you, 
Let  slip  an  idle  word, 
Beyond  recall. 
But  you, 

Though  you  have  been  denied  so  much, 
Have  been  spared  something,  too; 
You  have  not  stood 
Beside  your  firstborn's  grave. 

REBECCA.     Your  patient  stirs. 
You'd  better  keep  your  tenderness  for  her, 
And  not  waste  words  on  me. 
You  know  the  saying: 
"  Least  said,  is  soonest  mended." 

[She  turns,  as  if  to  go.] 

BARBARA.     Ay,  she  wakens. 
But  you're  not  going  now? 

REBECCA.     Why  should  I  stay  ? 

BARBARA.     You  would  not  go  and  leave  me, 
Alone  with  her? 
If  she  should  die! 

REBECCA.     If  she's  to  die,  she'll  die. 
Fear  not,  she's  not  the  sort 
To  go  before  her  time. 

BARBARA.     I  dare  not  bide  alone. 

REBECCA.    You  dare  not  —  you ! 
Oh,  the  brave  mothers! 
Must  the  barren  wife 
Lose  her  night's  rest 
To  tend  two  shiftless  mothers? 
For  she, 
The  helpless  wanton  on  the  bed, 


8o  DAILY  BREAD 

And  you, 

Who  stand  a-tremble  by  her  side, 

Are  mothers  both; 

While  I  — 

I'm  but  a  barren  woman, 

Hard  of  heart. 

BARBARA.     I  never  said  so,  neighbour. 
But  go, 

I  do  not  need  you. 
I,  who  have  brought  to  birth, 
Can  look  on  death  alone,  if  need  be. 
I  fear  no  longer. 
Shut  the  door  behind  you. 

REBECCA.     Nay,  but  I'll  stay. 

BARBARA.     Bide  if  you  will, 
But  don't  come  nigh  the  bed. 

REBECCA.     Don't  fear, 
I  would  not  soil  my  hands. 

BARBARA.     Your  heart  is  soiled  past  cleansing. 
But  it's  no  time  for  words. 
She'll  die  while  we  are  wrangling. 
She  tries  to  speak. 

[GRISEL  STARK  raises  herself  on  the  bed  and  looks  about  her.] 

GRISEL.     Oh ! 
The  great  light! 

BARBARA.     The  light? 
It's  but  my  lamp. 
It  hurts  your  eyes  .  .  . 

GRISEL.     Nay,  do  not  move  it. 
It's  not  the  lamp  I  mean. 
The  light  is  in  my  heart. 
The  candles  all  are  quenched ; 
Yet  I  fear  nothing  now. 
But  where  am  I  ? 

BARBARA.     You're  on  your  bed, 
In  your  own  house. 

GRISEL.     But  you  — 
How  do  you  come  here  — 
You  and  your  lamp? 
I  never  heard  the  latch. 

BARBARA.     Nay,  you've  been  ill. 
I  saw  the  house  in  darkness; 


DAILY  BREAD  81 


And  feared  that  something  was  amiss. 

And  so  I  entered, 

To  find  you  stretched,  unconscious,  by  your  hearth. 

GRISEL.     I  must  have  fallen  then. 
Yes,  I've  been  ill  for  years; 
But  I  am  better  now, 
And  I  shall  ail  no  more. 
You  sdy  the  house  was  dark; 
Yet  it  was  full  of  light  — 
The  light  within  my  heart  — 
The  light  that  quenched  the  candles  and  my  fears. 
I,  who  have  dwelt  in  darkness, 
Know  the  light, 
As  you  can  never  know  it. 
Since  he  died, 
My  little  babe, 
So  many  years  ago, 
My  heart  has  dwelt  in  darkness. 
And  though  fear  ever  kindled 
Pale  candles  to  dispel  the  night, 
But  little  they  availed ; 
Nor  even  noon  could  drive  away 
That  darkness  from  my  heart  — 
My  heart  so  choked  with  bitterness. 
Since  my  babe  died  .  .  . 
Nay,  neighbour,  don't  shrink  back! 
These  hands  have  never  done  a  baby  hurt. 
I  know  what's  in  your  mind ; 
I  heard  those  dreadful  whisperings, 
In  years  gone  by  ; 
Though  then  I  answered  nothing. 
But,  oh!  if  you  have  felt 
A  newborn  baby,  cold  against  the  breast, 
You'll  know  I  speak  the  truth. 

BARBARA.     I  know. 

GRISEL.     Still  .  .  .  you  were  right  to  shrink: 
Although  my  hands  are  clean. 
I  killed  the  babe  — 
I  killed  it,  in  my  heart, 
Ere  it  was  born. 
I  poisoned  it  with  hate  — 
My  hate  of  him  who  had  forsaken  me. 
Why  don't  you  shrink  from  me, 
Now  all  is  told  ? 


82  DAILY  BREAD 

Your  eyes  are  kind ; 

And  I  can  talk  with  you 

As  I  have  talked  with  no  one. 

But,  who's  that  — 

There,  in  the  shadow  .  .  . 

Though  it  matters  little; 

For  I  would  have  the  whole  world  see 

The  light  that  floods  my  heart. 

When  first  I  left  my  home, 

To  hide  my  shame  from  friendly  eyes, 

And  came  into  this  countryside, 

And  thought  to  bear  the  pang 

And  burden  of  my  misery 

More  easily,  'mid  strangers, 

My  heart  was  black  against  .  .  . 

But,  even  now, 

Why  should  I  name  that  name, 

Which  once  was  all-in-all  to  me! 

And,  that  dark  month 

Before  his  child  was  born, 

I  brooded  on  my  wrongs ; 

And  nursed  hate  in  my  bosom, 

Until  there  was  no  room 

For  any  other  care  within  my  heart. 

Ah,  shut  your  ears, 

If  you  would  hear  no  more! 

For  I  must  tell  out  all. 

Your  brow  is  smooth: 

I  think  you  could  not  hate : 

And  few  have  known  such  hate  as  mine. 

His  child, 

Within  my  womb, 

Because  it  was  his  child  — 

Ay,  even  it, 

My  hatred  would  not  spare, 

But  ever  prayed 

That  it  might  never  look  upon  the  light, 

Nor  draw  a  mortal  breath ; 

Though  I  myself  must  perish 

To  keep  the  life  from  it. 

My  time  came ; 

And  I  went  through  all,  alone. 

Nay,  spare  your  pity,  neighbour! 

'Twas  my  will. 


DAILY  BREAD  83 


I  kept  you  all  at  bay, 

To  serve  my  evil  ends. 

And  little  I  remember  of  those  days, 

Save  as  a  dream  of  anguish, 

Until  the  morn  I  woke 

To  feel  a  lifeless  baby  at  my  breast  — 

Whose  eyes  had  never  looked  upon  the  light- 

Whose  lips  had  never  drawn  a  mortal  breath 

And  knew  my  prayer  was  answered, 

Though  I  lived; 

For  death  had  passed  me  by, 

And  left  me  to  my  punishment  — 

To  live  .  .  . 

Knowing  myself  a  murderer  in  my  heart, 

Although  my  hands  were  clean. 

And,  since  that  hour, 

The  babe  has  haunted  me! 

And  I  have  never  dared 

To  be  alone  with  darkness, 

A  moment,  lest  those  eyes, 

Which  I  denied  the  light  of  heaven, 

Should  burn  out  from  the  dark  on  me. 

I  strove  to  keep  the  night  at  bay 

With  flickering  candles, 

But,  in  vain, 

Because  my  own  breast  still  was  dark. 

The  night  was  in  my  heart, 

My  stubborn  heart, 

That  could  not  yet  forgive. 

But,  when  I  came  from  work  to-day, 

I  was  so  spent, 

I  scarce  could  lift  the  latch, 

Or  cross  the  threshold-stone  ; 

And  could  not  eat  nor  sup  ; 

Just  having  strength  to  light  my  candles, 

Before  I  fell  asleep, 

Beside  the  hearth. 

How  long  I  slept, 

I  cannot  tell. 

I  wakened  with  a  start, 

To  find  the  room  in  darkness  — 

The  candles  all  burnt  out. 

And  I  was  frightened  ; 

For  it  was  long  since  I  had  looked 


84  DAILY  BREAD 

On  utter  night  ; 

And  now, 

I  seemed  to  look  in  my  own  heart. 

I  feared  to  breathe; 

And  then  for  the  first  time 

Since  I  had  been  forsaken, 

The  thought  of  him  came  to  me, 

Without  a  breath  of  hate ; 

And  pity  stole  like  light  into  my  heart; 

And,  in  a  flash, 

The  room  was  filled  with  light. 

And,  as  I  wondered  whence 

The  sudden  glory  sprang, 

My  little  babe 

Before  me,  laughing,  stood, 

With  arms  outstretched, 

And  happy,  kindling  eyes  — 

His  little  body  filled  with  living  light. 

And,  as  I  stooped  .  .  . 

To  snatch  him  to  my  breast, 

I  fell  ,  .  . 

And  knew  no  more  .  .  . 

Till,  in  the  night, 

I  saw  you,  standing  by  the  bed. 

But,  nay! 

There  is  no  night, 

Since  I  have  cast  out  fear; 

And  I  shall  dread  the  darkness  nevermore. 

But  ...  I  am  weary  .  .  . 

And  would  sleep  .  .  . 

You  need  not  watch  with  me ; 

For  I  fear  nothing  now  .  .  . 

I  who  have  come  through  midnight  .  .  . 

And  look  .  .  .  upon  .  .  .  the  dawn. 

The  light  ...  the  light!  .  .  . 

My  babe  ...  my  newborn  babe! 


[She  sinks  back  exhausted,  moaning.] 


BARBARA.     She  cannot  last  long  now; 
The  end  is  nigh. 
I  fear  he'll  be  too  late. 

REBECCA.     Too  late? 


DAILY  BREAD  85 

What  could  he  do  if  he  were  here? 
She's  far  beyond  the  need  of  doctors. 

[A  noise  of  wheels  is  heard  without ;  the  door  opens,  and  the 
breath  of  morning  sweeps  through  the  room.] 


ON  THE  ROAD 

Persons: 

REUBEN  APPLEBY. 
JESSIE  APPLEBY,  his  ivife. 
PETER  NIXON,  a  stonebreaker. 

REUBEN  APPLEBY  and  his  wife  sit  under  a  hedge  by  the  highway. 
REUBEN  is  eating  bread  and  cheese,  while  JESSIE  is  feeding 
her  baby  with  milk  out  of  a  bottle. 

REUBEN.     "Married!"  he  says, 
And  looks  at  me  quite  sharply  — 
"  A  boy  like  you !  " 
And  civilly  I  answered: 
"  Not  such  a  boy,  sir ; 
I  am  nineteen,  past." 
"  Nineteen!  "  says  he,  and  laughs; 
"  And  you  a  husband,  with  a  wife  to  keep  — 
A  wife  and  family,  I  suppose." 
"  We  have  a  baby,  sir." 
"  A  baby!  and  you're  just  a  child  yourself! 
What  right  have  you  to  marry, 
And  bring  into  the  world 
A  tribe  of  helpless  children 
To  starve,  and  beg,  and  steal?  " 
With  that  he  took  his  children  by  the  hand, 
And  walked  away. 

I  could  have  flung  his  money  after  him, 
But  I  had  laboured  for  it 
And  was  hungry, 

And  knew  that  you  were  famished ; 
And  the  boy  must  have  his  milk. 
What  right !  — 
I  could  have  flung  .  .  . 

JESSIE.     Then,  you  had  flung  away 
Your  baby's  life! 

REUBEN.    Ay,  lass,  that  stopt  me, 
86 


DAILY  BREAD  87 


And  the  thought  of  you  ; 

And  so,  I  took  the  sixpence, 

And  bought  the  bread  and  cheese  and  milk. 

JESSIE.     You  brought  it  just  in  time. 
He'd  cried  himself  to  sleep  ; 
But  in  my  arms  he  lay  so  still  and  white, 
That  I  was  frightened. 

REUBEN.     You  were  famished,  lass. 

JESSIE.     Yes ;  I  was  done. 
I  scarce  could  hold  him, 
Though  he's  light  — 
So  thin  and  light. 

But,  when  I  laid  him  down,  he  cried  so, 
I  could  not  bear  .  .  . 

REUBEN.     Well,  he  looks  happy  now. 
He's  drinking  like  a  fish. 
The  milk  will  make  him  fat  again. 
But  you  eat  nothing,  Jessie. 

JESSIE.     I  cannot  eat. 

REUBEN.     You  cannot? 

JESSIE.     Not  just  now. 

REUBEN.     Jessie,  you  must; 
You'll  die  of  hunger. 

JESSIE.     I'm  not  hungry  now; 
But  only  weary. 
After,  perhaps  .  .  . 

REUBEN.     What  right  had  I  to  marry! 
What  right  had  he  — 
He,  with  his  wife  and  children, 
To  speak  to  me  like  that? 
I  could  have  flung  .  .  . 

JESSIE.     Nay,  lad  ;  don't  vex  yourself 
With  thought  of  such  as  he. 
How  can  it  matter  what  he  said  to  you, 
Now  that  it's  over, 
And  the  boy  is  fed  ? 

REUBEN.     His  money  bought  the  milk  — 
Ay,  and  the  bread  and  cheese. 

JESSIE.     And  do  they  not  taste  sweet? 
You  seem  to  relish  them. 

REUBEN.     They're  well  enough. 
But,  would  not  any  food  taste  sweet, 
After  starvation? 
And  I'd  worked  for  it. 


88  DAILY  BREAD 

JESSIE.     How  could  it  be  his  money, 
If  you'd  earned  it? 

REUBEN.     True,  lass. 
Still,  you  eat  nothing. 

JESSIE.     I  cannot  eat. 

REUBEN.     It's  ill  work  tramping  all  the  livelong  day, 
With  naught  but  hunger  in  the  belly, 
As  we  did  yesterday ; 
And  then,  at  night, 
To  shelter  'neath  a  stack; 
And  lie,  and  think  — 
Too  cold  and  tired  to  sleep  — 
To  lie,  and  think, 
And  wonder  if  to-morrow 
Would  bring  us  bite  and  sup ; 
Envying  the  very  beasts  that  they  could  feed 
Upon  the  hay  that  bedded  us. 
And  still,  'twas  good  to  rest 
From  tramping  the  hard  road. 
But,  you  were  plucky,  lass; 
And  trudged  so  bravely. 

JESSIE.     Yet  I  could  have  dropped, 
Had  I  not  hoped  to  get  him  milk  ere  night. 

REUBEN.     Poor  babe! 
He  cried  all  day. 
My  sleeve  was  wet  with  tears. 

JESSIE.     'Twas  a  hard  road,  and  long. 

REUBEN.     The  road  is  hard  and  long  the  poor  must  travel. 

JESSIE.     Ay,  and  the  end? 

REUBEN.     The  end? 
Where  the  end  lies,  who  knows? 


[A  pause. ,] 


Wife,  he  spake  truly ; 

I'd  no  right  to  marry  — 

No  right  to  wed,  and  bring  into  the  world  . 

JESSIE.     What's  that  you  say? 
You're  wearied  of  me,  husband? 

REUBEN.     Nay,  wife,  you  know  .  .  . 
Still,  he  spake  truly. 
I  never  thought  of  it  like  this  before ; 
I  never  should  have  thought  of  it  at  all, 
Had  he  not  spoken; 


DAILY  BREAD  89 


I'd  not  wits  enough. 
But  now,  I  see; 
I  had  no  right  to  marry, 
And  bring  into  the  world 
A  baby  .  .  . 

JESSIE.     Don't  you  love  your  son  ? 

REUBEN.     Love  him! 
I  wouldn't  see  him  starve. 
I  had  no  right  .  .  . 
Yet,  when  we  married, 
Things  looked  so  different,  Jessie. 
I  earned  my  weekly  wage, 
Enough  to  live  on, 
And  to  keep  a  wife  on ; 
And  we  were  happy  in  our  home, 
Together,  weren't  we,  wife? 

JESSIE.     Ay,  we  were  happy,  Reuben. 

REUBEN.     And  then,  the  baby  came, 
And  we  were  happier  still ; 
For,  how  could  we  foresee 
Bad  times  would  follow, 
And  work  be  slack ; 
And  all  the  mills  be  stopt ; 
And  we  be  bundled  out  of  house  and  home, 
With  naught  to  do 
But  take  the  road, 
And  look  for  work  elsewhere  ? 
It's  a  long  looking  .  .  . 
Nay,  but  he  spake  truly  .  .  . 
I  had  no  right  .  .  . 

JESSIE.     Nay,  Reuben,  you  talk  foolishness; 
Your  head  is  light  with  fasting. 
An  empty  belly  makes  an  empty  head. 
Leave  idle  talking  to  the  rich  ; 
A  poor  man  can't  afford  it. 
And  I've  no  patience  with  such  folly. 

REUBEN.     Nay,  it's  not  folly,  lass, 
But  truth,  the  bitter  truth. 
Is  it  not  true,  we're  on  the  road, 
I,  and  my  starving  wife  and  babe? 

JESSIE.     Nay,  husband ;  see ! 
He's  drunk  the  milk ; 
And  sleeps  so  sweetly. 

REUBEN.     But  you're  ill. 


9o  DAILY  BREAD 

JESSIE.     111? 
Nay,  I'm  well  enough. 

REUBEN.     Yet  you're  too  ill  to  eat. 

JESSIE.     Nay,  I  was  only  tired. 
But  I'll  eat  now,  lad, 
If  you've  left  me  aught! 
See  how  it  goes! 

REUBEN.     I  had  no  right  ... 

JESSIE.     Not  if  you  did  not  love  me! 

REUBEN.    You  know  .  .  . 

JESSIE.     How  can  I  tell  ? 
You  talk  so  strangely ; 
And  say  that  you'd  no  right  to  wed  me  ... 
Why  did  you  wed  me,  then? 

REUBEN.     Because  I  couldn't  help  .  .  . 
I  could  not  do  without  you. 
I  did  not  think  .  .  . 
How  could  I  think,  when  I  was  mad  for  you? 

JESSIE.     And  yet  you  had  no  right? 

REUBEN.     Right!     What  thought  I  of  right? 
I  only  thought  of  you,  lass. 
Nay,  but  I  did  not  think  .  .  . 
I  only  felt, 
And  knew  I  needs  must  have  you. 

JESSIE.     You  loved  me  ... 
Then,  was  love  not  right  enough? 
Why  talk  of  right? 
Or,  have  you  wearied  of  us  — 
Your  wife  and  son? 
Poor  babe ! 
He  doesn't  love  us  any  longer. 

REUBEN.     Nay,  wife,  you  know  .  .  . 

[PETER  NIXON,  an  elderly  man,  gaunt  and  bent  with  labour, 
comes  slowly  down  the  road,  with  his  stonebreaker's  ham- 
mer on  his  shoulder.  He  glances  at  REUBEN  and  JESSIE, 
in  passing;  hesitates,  then  turns,  and  comes  towards 
them.] 

PETER.     Fine  morning,  mate  and  mistress ! 
Might  you  be  looking  for  a  job,  my  lad? 
Well  .  .  .  there's  a  heap  of  stones  to  break,  down  yonder. 
I  was  just  on  my  way  .  .  . 
But  I  am  old: 


DAILY  BREAD  91 

And,  maybe,  a  bit  idle; 

And  you  look  young, 

And  not  afraid  of  work, 

Or  I'm  an  ill  judge  of  a  workman's  hands. 

And  when  the  job's  done,  lad, 

There'll  be  a  shilling. 

And  there's  worse  work  than  breaking  stones  for  bread. 

And  I'll  just  have  a  nap, 

While  you  are  busy, 

And,  maybe,  sleep  away  the  afternoon, 

Like  the  old,  idle  rascal  that  I  am. 

Nay,  but  there's  naught  to  thank  me  for. 

I'm  old ; 

And  I've  no  wife  and  children, 

And  so,  don't  need  the  shilling. 

But  you  are  young; 

And  you  must  work  for  it, 

While  I  sit  by  and  watch  you 

And  keep  you  at  it. 

I  like  to  watch  folk  working, 

For  I  am  old  and  idle. 

Perhaps  I'll  sleep  a  bit,  with  one  eye  open; 

And  when  you  think  I'm  nodding, 

I'll  come  down  on  you  like  a  load  of  metal. 

Don't  fear! 

I'll  make  you  earn  it; 

You'll  have  to  sweat, 

Before  that  shilling's  yours; 

Unless  you're  proud  — 

Too  proud  to  work  .  .  . 

Nay? 

Well,  the  heap's  down  yonder  — 

There,  at  the  turning. 

Ah,  the  bonnie  babe! 

We  had  no  children,  mistress. 

And  what  can  any  old  man  do  with  shillings, 

With  no  one  but  himself  to  spend  them  on  — 

An  idle,  good-for-nothing,  lone  old  man? 

[He  leads  them  to  the  turning  of  the  road.] 


THE  BETROTHED 

Persons: 

DEBORAH  GREY,  Edward  Grey's  mother. 
FRANCES  HALL,  betrothed  to  Edward  Grey. 

Scene:  A  fishing  village,  on  the  return  of  the  Boats  from  the  sea- 
son's fishing  in  foreign  waters.  DEBORAH  GREY'S  cottage. 
DEBORAH  GREY,  an  infirm,  middle-aged  woman,  sits  by  the 
hearth.  FRANCES  HALL  enters,  and  sits  down  with  her  knit- 
ting. 

DEBORAH.     Why,  Frances,  you're  not  gone 
To  watch  the  Boats  come  in? 
When  I  was  but  a  wench, 
With  lad  aboard  a  homing  boat, 
I  could  not  rest,  nor  work, 
For  days  and  days  before, 
But  spent  my  whole  time  on  the  quay, 
To  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  his  sail; 
And  little  recked,  although  my  mother  chided. 
But  you  .  .  . 

FRANCES.     The  Boats  are  not  in  sight  yet. 

DEBORAH.     They're  due  to-day,  lass,  surely? 
And,  if  you  tarry  here, 
You'll  miss  the  first  sight  of  the  sails, 
That  brings  such  sweet  relief 
Unto  the  anxious  heart. 
How  often  have  I  stared 
Upon  the  far  horizon, 
Until  it  seemed  his  sail 
Would  never  sweep  in  sight; 
And,  in  the  end, 
I  looked  in  vain. 

FRANCES.     In  vain! 
I,  too,  shall  look  in  vain. 

DEBORAH.     Why,  Frances,  lass, 
What  ails  you  ? 
Is  this  a  brave  girl's  heart? 

92 


DAILY  BREAD  93 

Though,  in  the  end, 

I  looked  in  vain, 

Good  hope  was  ever  in  my  breast, 

Until  I  knew. 

A  woman  who  gives  way  to  foolish  fears 

May  bring  about  the  thing  she  dreads. 

0  lass,  cast  out  that  thought, 

Lest  it  should  bring  his  boat  in  peril ! 

He  will  return. 

Tell  that  unto  your  heart, 

Till  it  believes. 

Your  doubt  may  breed  disaster. 

But,  away! 

You  should  be  with  the  other  women-folk, 

As  I  would  be, 

If  I  could  crawl  as  far. 

Your  eager  eyes 

Should  welcome  the  first  speck  that  swims  in  sight, 

And  know  it  for  his  sail. 

FRANCES.     Nay,  I  would  stay  with  you. 
We  soon  shall  hear 
When  any  boat's  in  sight. 

DEBORAH.     One  scarce  would  think  you  had  a  lover,  Frances. 
In  my  young  days, 
No  girl  could  keep  indoors, 
Knowing  the  Boats  were  due. 
Yet,  here  you  sit 
So  calmly,  knitting. 

FRANCES.     If  I  don't  knit, 
What  can  I  do? 

DEBORAH.     What  can  ... 

FRANCES.     I  only  knit, 
Because  I  dare  not  think. 

DEBORAH.     You  dare  not  think? 

FRANCES.     But  you  .  .  . 
You  have  no  mercy  .  .  . 
Nay,  forgive  me! 

1  did  not  mean  to  hurt  .  .  . 
And  yet, 

If  you  had  only  let  me  knit  in  peace. 

DEBORAH.     In  peace? 

FRANCES.     And  now, 
I  cannot  even  knit. 
Why  should  I  knit  for  him  ? 


94  DAILY  BREAD 

DEBORAH.     For  Edward? 

FRANCES.     Yes,  for  him. 
Why  should  I, 
Knowing  that  I  knit  in  vain? 

DEBORAH.     What  ails  you,  lass ? 
Do  you  not  love  my  son? 

FRANCE.     Do  I  not  love  him  ? 
Love  him  .  .  .  woman  .  .  .  love! 
Why,  you  know  naught  of  love 
To  question  this! 
Have  you  no  eyes,  no  heart? 
Ah,  God! 

I  thought  the  dullest  would  have  seen  .  .  . 
And  you,  his  mother  .  .  . 
And  you  Once  were  young! 
But  you  are  young  no  longer. 
You  look  on  Edward  as  a  child. 
Still,  you  were  young  once, 
And  have  loved,  you  say  .  .  . 

DEBORAH.     Yes,  lass,  I  loved. 
God  knows,  none  ever  was  more  true  to  love  .  .  . 

FRANCES.     Then  you  should  know  the  terror  and  despair. 

DEBORAH.     At  your  age,  Frances,  love,  to  me, 
Was  naught  but  happiness  and  hope. 

FRANCES.     You  have  not  loved! 

DEBORAH.    Yes,  I  have  loved! 
I,  too,  have  known  the  terror  and  despair; 
But  never  looked  to  meet  it  ere  its  time. 
I  doubted  naught, 
Until  disaster  fell. 
I  did  not  go  half-way  to  meet  disaster. 

FRANCES.     And  yet,  disaster  came? 

DEBORAH.     Disaster  came  .  .  . 
But  I  had  known  some  happiness. 
My  maiden  days  of  love 
Were  one  long,  happy  dream. 
Your  heart  should  know  no  care  now. 
What  can  it  dread? 

FRANCES.     If  I  but  knew! 

DEBORAH.     You  foolish  girl! 
When  you  know  more  of  life, 
You  will  not  spend  your  heart  so  easily 
On  idle  fancies. 
'Twill  be  time  enough 


DAILY  BREAD  95 

To  meet  your  trouble,  when  it  comes. 

I  know,  and  none  knows  better, 

The  bitterness  life  brings. 

And  still,  we  better  naught  by  dark  foreboding, 

And  brooding  on  unknown  .  .  . 

FRANCES.     It's  the  unknown  I  dread. 

DEBORAH.     Nay,  lass, 
Enough  of  this! 
There's  naught  to  fear. 
Your  lover,  even  now,  is  on  his  way, 
And  strains  his  eyes  to  catch  the  earliest  glimpse  .  .  . 

[A  noise  of  voices  and  running  footsteps  without.] 

Hark,  lass! 

They  cry: 

The  Boats! 

The  Boats  in  sight! 

Why  do  you  tarry,  lass? 

Away  with  you! 

Oh,  would  that  I  could  go 

To  meet  my  son! 

FRANCES.     The  Boats  are  still  far  off. 
I  cannot  go  yet. 

DEBORAH.     You  must!     Away! 
Why,  what  would  Edward  think, 
Were  you  not  there, 
The  first  to  greet  him 
As  he  steps  ashore  ? 

FRANCES.     I  nevermore  shall  greet  him  .  .  . 

DEBORAH.     Woman,  peace! 
I  am  his  mother. 
Could  I  fail  to  know, 
If  death  had  taken  him? 
The  sea  could  not  withhold 
Such  knowledge  from  me  for  a  single  hour. 
He  is  not  drowned  .  .  . 
May  he  forgive  my  lips  that  slipt  the  word! 
Your  folly  goaded  me. 
And,  surely,  never  word  of  mine 
Can  bring  my  son  in  peril! 

[FRANCES  goes  out.] 
And  yet,  I  too,  have  feared  .  .  . 
Nay,  surely,  I  have  come 
Unto  the  end  of  all  my  misery! 


96  DAILY  BREAD 

Life  cannot  hold  fresh  woe  in  store. 

My  days  began  in  happiness; 

And  now,  it  seems, 

Though  I  have  passed  through  terrors  and  despairs, 

That  I  shall  come  again  to  happiness, 

Before  the  end. 

Nay,  there  is  naught  to  dread. 

My  son  is  hale  and  hearty, 

And  comes  to  wed  a  lass  who  loves  him ; 

And  she,  I  know,  is  true  to  him; 

And  such  a  handy  girl 

Will  make  the  best  of  wives. 

And  I,  one  day, 

Shall  nurse  his  child  upon  my  knee. 

[Shouting  without.] 
The  Boats  are  in! 
I  know  that  cry! 

How  oft  my  heart  has  leapt  with  hope  to  hear  it; 
Then  fallen  dead, 
When  no  one  came  to  answer  my  heart's  cry. 

[A  long  pause,  during  which  DEBORAH  sits  gazing  at  the  fire.] 

But  I'll  not  think  of  that  now. 

Edward  comes  — 

My  son  comes  home  — 

And  with  him  comes  the  hope 

Of  all  my  happiness. 

For,  surely,  life  .  .  . 

How  long  it  takes  to  get  the  nets  ashore  .  .  . 

But  I  hear  footsteps  coming  .  .  . 

They  stop  short. 

Some  one  has  crossed  his  threshold,  and  won  home. 

Joy  has  come  home  to  some  one's  heart. 

Again,  a  rush  of  feet  .  .  . 

But  they  have  passed  the  door. 

I  might  have  known  'twas  not  his  foot. 

And  still,  I  thought 

That  no  one  could  have  beaten  my  boy  home. 

Surely,  by  now,  the  nets  are  out, 

And  all  made  trim  and  ship-shape. 

And  yet, 

He  does  not  come. 

Some  one  must  keep  him  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  97 

Some  one  ...  I  forget ! 

Nay,  I'm  no  longer  all-in-all  to  him. 

Why  should  he  haste, 

With  Frances  by  his  side? 

Two  never  trod  a  road  as  quick  as  one. 

I  must  be  patient  still  .  .  . 

But  hark! 

A  woman's  step  .  .  . 

A  woman's  .  .  . 

And  .  .  .  alone! 

She  stops,  thank  God ! 

Nay  .  .  .  she  comes  slowly  on. 

0  God,  that  she  may  pass! 
She  stops  .  .  . 

She  only  stops  for  breath. 

She  will  go  by. 

Perhaps,  poor  soul,  her  lover  has  been  drowned  — 

Her  lover, 

Or  her  husband  .  .  . 

Or  her  son. 

1  wonder  who  .  .  . 
And  still 

She  lingers  .  .  . 

I  hear  no  sound. 

Could  I  but  rise! 

She  stirs  at  last. 

Ah,  God!  she's  drawing  nearer; 

Her  foot  is  on  the  threshold  .  .  . 

[FRANCES  enters,  slowly,  and  sinks  wearily  into  a  chair,  with- 
out speaking.] 

DEBORAH.     You  come,  alone? 

FRANCES.     I  come,  alone. 

DEBORAH.     The  Boats  are  in? 

FRANCES.     The  Boats  are  in. 

DEBORAH.     All  in? 

Say,  lass,  that  one  has  not  yet  reached  the  harbour. 
Have  pity! 

FRANCES.     All  are  in. 

DEBORAH.     No  boat  is  missing? 

FRANCES.     The  Family's  Pride  has  foundered. 

DEBORAH.     But  that  was  not  his  boat. 
He  was  not  on  her,  lass,  when  she  went  down  ? 


98  DAILY  BREAD 

Speak,  lass! 

FRANCES.     He  was  not  on  her. 
Her  crew  went  down  with  her  .  .  . 
But  he  ... 

DEBORAH.     He  is  not  drowned? 

FRANCES.     He  is  not  drowned. 

DEBORAH.     Thank  God! 
And  yet,  he  stays  .  .  . 
What  keeps  him,  Frances? 
Will  he  soon  be  home? 
Are  all  the  nets  not  out  yet? 
And  you  .  .  . 

Do  you  but  come  before  him? 
You  frightened  me; 
You  walked  so  slowly ; 
And  you  looked  .  .  .  you  look  .  .  . 
O  woman,  tell  me  that  he  follows  you! 

FRANCES.     He  does  not  follow. 

DEBORAH.     Oh,  you'll  drive  me  crazed! 
Have  you  no  heart ! 
Speak  out. 
And  tell  me  quickly 
What  keeps  my  son  from  me. 

FRANCES.     How  should  I  know  what  keeps  your  son  from  you  ? 

DEBORAH.     He  is  not  dead? 

FRANCES.     He  is  not  dead. 

DEBORAH.     And  yet  he  bides  from  home. 
O  woman,  speak ! 
For  pity's  sake, 
Tell  all  you  know  — 
For  you  know  something; 
And  I'm  strong; 
I've  gone  through  much. 
Speak  out  the  truth. 

FRANCES.     There  is  not  much  to  tell. 
He  left  the  Boats, 
Ere  they  put  out  for  home. 
He  gave  no  reason. 
He  only  asked  his  mates 
To  let  you  have  his  share, 
When  they  should  make  the  season's  reckoning. 
He  said  he  needed  naught; 
As  he  had  done  with  fishing, 
And  never  would  return. 


DAILY  BREAD  99 


DEBORAH.     My  son! 
And  they  knew  nothing  of  the  way  he  went  ? 

FRANCES.     Nothing! 
They  tried  to  turn  him : 
But  in  vain. 
Woman  .  .  .  your  son  .  .  . 

DEBORAH.     He  left  no  word  for  you? 

FRANCES.  Nay,  not  a  word. 
He  had  no  thought  for  me  ... 
Nor  for  his  child. 

DEBORAH.     His  child? 

FRANCES.     His  child,  that,  even  now, 
Within  my  womb'  .  .  . 

DEBORAH.     Ah,  God,  had  I  but  known! 
Had  I  but  known! 
He  is  his  father's  son. 

FRANCES.     Woman,  what's  that  you  mutter? 
Were  you  not  married  .  .  .  you  ? 

DEBORAH.     Yes,  I  was  wedded, 
Ere  my  boy  was  born. 
But  that  meant  little: 
For  his  father  left  me, 
Ere  Edward  saw  the  light. 
He  went  away, 
Without  a  word ; 

And  I  have  not  set  eyes  on  him  again. 
He  may  be  living  still, 
For  all  I  know. 

FRANCES.    And  you  .  .  . 
You  let  me  love  his  son. 

DEBORAH.     His  son? 
But  Edward  was  my  son  as  well. 
He  never  knew  his  father; 
And  could  I  dream 
He'd  follow  in  his  steps? 
Believe  me,  or  believe  not, 
As  you  will, 

This  thing  my  heart  could  never  have  foreseen. 
I  have  been  blind  and  foolish,  maybe,  lass, 
Because  I  loved  my  son  ; 
Yes,  I  was  blind, 

And  you  must  curse  me  for  that  blindness, 
And  not  for  any  evil  purpose. 
If  I  had  seen, 


ioo  DAILY  BREAD 

I  should  have  told  you  all; 

Ay,  even  though  my  words  estranged 

My  only  son  from  me. 

Ah,  God,  that  he  had  died, 

Ere  this  could  happen ! 

But  time  re-tells  the  old  and  bitter  tale 

I  know  too  well  already. 

That  he  ... 

You  say 

The  Family's  Pride  went  down  with  all  her  men 

And  Martha  Irwin  is  left  desolate 

Of  all  her  sons ; 

And  still  I  envy  her. 

Her  sons  have  gallantly  gone  down  to  death, 

But  mine  .  .  . 

I  would  that  he,  too  .  .  . 

I  would  that  he  ... 

FRANCES.     Nay,  woman,  hush! 
For  he  may  still  return. 
And  yet  you  say 
His  father  came  no  more. 

DEBORAH.     He  came  no  more. 

FRANCES.     Then  there  is  nothing  left  for  me, 
But  death  .  .  . 
And  I  ...  I  loved  him  .  .  . 

DEBORAH.     No  love  is  spent  in  vain. 
Don't  talk  of  death. 

FRANCES.     What  else  is  left  me,  woman  ? 

DEBORAH.    Life! 

FRANCES.     Life  .  .  .  without  him ! 
Ah,  God,  I  love  him  still! 
And  life  without  him  were  a  living  death. 
And  I  would  rather  lie 
Cold  in  my  grave, 
If  I  must  die. 

DEBORAH.     You  must  not  die. 

FRANCES.     Who  bids  me  live  ? 

DEBORAH.    The  child. 

FRANCES.     His  child! 
Far  better  I  should  die 
Than  it  be  born  to  misery. 

DEBORAH.     'Twas  even  so  I  talked, 
Before  my  boy  was  born ; 
And  yet,  I  lived. 


DAILY  BREAD  101 

FRANCES.     And  what  has  life  been  worth  to  you? 

DEBORAH.     I  have  not  found  much  happiness  in  life; 
And  now  all  that  I've  worked  for, 
The  happiness  I  thought  within  my  reach, 
That  I  have  laboured  after  all  these  years, 
Is  snatched  from  me  ; 
And,  in  the  end, 
I  find  no  peace. 
And  still,  have  I  not  worked? 
And  work  is  something  more  than  happiness ; 
It's  life  itself. 

I  have  not  flinched  from  life, 
But  looked  it  in  the  face. 
My  son  was  born  to  me  in  bitterness, 
And  he  has  passed  from  me  again 
In  bitterness. 
And  yet,  meanwhile, 
I've  found  my  life  worth  living. 
I  have  worked ; 
And  I  am  old, 
And  broken  ere  my  time  — 
The  woman's  life 
Is  not  an  easy  one,  at  best. 
But  you  are  strong; 
And  unto  her  who  labours  for  a  child 
Life  cannot  be  all  barrenness. 
Ay,  you  must  live  life  out. 
You  cannot  see  the  end ; 
And  happiness,  that  slips  me,  at  the  last, 
May  still  be  yours. 

The  child  may  be  your  child  and  mine  — 
Not  Edward's  and  his  father's. 
We  two  have  loved, 

And  we  will  both  be  faithful  to  the  end. 
I  have  not  many  years  to  live  out, 
But  I  would  not  die  now; 
For  I  yet  hope  to  nurse 
My  grandchild  on  my  knee. 
Life  has  denied  me  much  ; 
But  you  will  not  deny  me  this? 
Have  pity  on  me, 
Old  and  desolate. 
Would  you  forsake  me,  lass? 

FRANCES.     I  will  not  leave  you. 


THE  FIRSTBORN 

Persons: 

DAVID  ELLIOT. 

MIRIAM  ELLIOT,  his  wife. 

Scene:     DAVID  ELLIOT'S  cottage.     MIRIAM  ELLIOT  stands  by  the 
open  door,  looking  out. 

MIRIAM.     The  Boats  are  in ; 
And  I  ... 

I  dare  not  go  to  meet  him. 
I  wouldn't  have  him  hear  the  tidings 
From  other  lips  than  mine  — 
His  wife's  .  .  . 
And  yet, 

How  shall  I  tell  him  — 
I,  his  wife! 
How  shall  I  say: 
"  Husband,  you  have  no  son; 
For  I,  his  mother  — 
I  have  let  him  die 

While  you  were  toiling  for  him  on  the  deep  ?  " 
Perhaps  they'll  break  the  news  to  him, 
Before  he  ... 

Nay,  but  he  must  learn  it  here  — 
Here,  in  his  home, 
And  only  from  my  lips, 

Lest  he  should  blench,  and  tremble,  in  the  street, 
Or  turn  upon  the  speaker  in  blind  fury. 
I  think  he'll  not  be  fierce  with  me: 
Though  he's  so  passionate, 
And  loves  the  child 
Beyond  all  else. 
He  knows  I,  too, 
Love  .  .  . 
And  yet, 
When  all  is  told, 

102 


DAILY  BREAD  103 

I  nevermore  shall  dare 
To  look  into  his  eyes. 
His  step  .  .  . 
He  comes. 

DAVID  [entering].     Well,  wife,  I'm  home. 
Have  you  no  word  of  welcome  ? 
Come,  kiss  me,  wife. 

MIRIAM.     Nay,  not  till  you  know  all. 

DAVID.     Know  all  ... 
Then  it  is  true  .  .  . 
Wife,  I  know  all. 

[Kisses  her.] 

MIRIAM.     Some  one  has  told  you  ? 

DAVID.     Nay ; 
I  did  not  learn  it,  Miriam, 
From  mortal  lips. 
Before  we  reached  the  quay, 
My  heart  already  feared ; 
And  when  I  saw  no  face  among  the  throng 
To  welcome  me, 
I  knew  the  boy  was  dead  — 
That  he  had  died 
The  night  I  saw  him,  cradled  in  the  foam. 

MIRIAM.     You  saw  him,  David! 

DAVID.     Yes,  I  saw  him,  wife, 
Aslumber  in  the  hollow  of  a  wave. 
'Twas  on  a  Friday  night, 
A  fortnight  since  .  .  . 

MIRIAM.     The  night  he  died! 

DAVID.     Yes,  wife ;  I  saw  him  die. 

MIRIAM.     You  saw  him  die  ? 

DAVID.     'Twas  on  the  Friday  night 
When  we  sailed  out, 
Beneath  a  cloudy  moon, 
To  shoot  the  nets, 
As,  standing  in  the  bow, 
I  watched  the  heaving  waters, 
My  glance  lit  on  a  patch  of  foam 
That  held  my  gaze 
Until  it  took  a  baby's  form. 
And  all  at  once 
I  knew  that  it  was  he, 
Our  little  David, 
Who  lay  sleeping  there. 


104  DAILY  BREAD 

And  as  the  moon  flashed  out 

I  saw,  more  clearly, 

His  dear,  white  dimpling  body  — 

One  wee  arm, 

Curled  on  his  breast, 

The  other,  stretched  towards  me, 

Although  he  seemed  to  sleep ; 

And,  on  his  brow,  his  hair, 

As  ruddy  as  the  new-dipt  sails  — 

Your  hair  he  had,  wife, 

Though  his  eyes  were  mine  — 

His  ruddy  hair  gleamed  brightly, 

Unwetted  by  the  waves. 

And  as  I  looked  on  him, 

My  heart  went  cold. 

And  still  I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  away, 

Until  the  moon  went  in, 

And  he  had  slipt  from  sight, 

Although  I  strained  across  the  glooming  waters 

For  one  more  glimpse  of  that  foam-cradled  form. 

And  then  we  reached  the  fishing  ground ; 

And  I  —  I  turned  to  work, 

Although  my  heart  was  sore  — 

My  heart,  that  knew  too  surely 

All  was  not  well  with  them  I  loved. 

MIRIAM.     That  night, 
I  watched  beside  him  as  he  slept ; 
One  little  arm  was  curled  upon  his  breast, 
The  other  stretched  towards  me ; 
His  ruddy  hair  drooped  o'er  his  brow. 
He  slept. 
But  in  the  end  .  .  . 

DAVID.     Ah,  God,  I  know! 
For,  as  we  hauled  the  nets, 
I  saw  his  body,  tangled  in  the  mesh  — 
His  little  body,  struggling, 
Frail  and  white, 
Among  the  silver  herring. 
My  heart  stood  still. 
I  could  not  stir, 
Nor  utter  cry. 
But,  as  the  nets  came  in, 
I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  mesh 
Save  lashing  fish ; 


DAILY  BREAD  105 


And,  as  we  shook  it  out, 

Naught  flashed  beneath  the  moon, 

Or  tumbled  in  the  hold, 

Save  the  live  quivering  heap  of  silver  herring. 

A  heavy  catch  they  said. 

But  I  —  how  should  I  know? 

MIRIAM.     Ah,  husband,  how  he  struggled 
Ere  he  died! 
He  fought  so  hard  — 
So  hard  for  life.  .  .  . 
And  I.  ... 

I  could  do  nothing  for  him  — 
I,  his  mother. 

David,  you  know  my  love  for  him. 
My  heart  has  well-nigh  died  with  him. 
You  do  not  blame  .  .  . 

DAVID.     Nay,  wife; 
For  he  was  taken  in  the  nets; 
And  I,  his  father, 
Could  not  set  him  free. 
We  could  do  nothing,  Miriam. 
Once  again, 

I  saw  him,  ere  the  dawning, 
And  once  more, 

He  nestled  in  the  hollow  of  a  wave, 
Foam-white  amid  the  foam. 
His  little  hands  were  clasped  upon  his  breast, 
And  then  I  knew  he  slumbered  peacefully, 
And  would  not  wake  again. 
The  day  broke, 
And  I  never  saw  him  more. 

MIRIAM.     He  slumbered  peacefully; 
His  little  hands  were  clasped  upon  his  breast, 
I  watched  with  him  till  dawn. 

DAVID.     And  my  heart  watched  with  you. 

MIRIAM.     And  we  are  left  without  him. 

DAVID.     But  we  are  left  together,  wife  — 
We  two  .  .  . 

MIRIAM.    We  two  .  .  . 
And  we  three  were  so  happy, 
Together,  husband! 
Oh,  why  should  he  leave  us? 
For  he  was  always  happy,  • 
Till  the  end  . 


io6  DAILY  BREAD 

DAVID.     Yes,  he  was  always  happy  ; 
His  little  life  was  full  of  happiness. 
Perhaps  it's  for  the  best 
That  he's  not  lived  to  look, 
As  all  must  look, 

Some  day  or  other,  on  unhappiness. 
He  brought  so  much  ; 
And,  though  he's  gone  so  suddenly, 
He  has  not  taken  all  away  with  him. 
We  still  have  memories. 

MIRIAM.     But  memory  is  bitter. 

DAVID.     Can  thought  of  him  be  anything  but  sweet  ? 
Do  you  remember,  wife,  when  he  was  born, 
Two  years  ago, 
How  I  was  out  at  sea? 
My  heart  was  filled  with  fear  for  you, 
And  hankered  to  be  home. 
The  wind  and  tide 
Were  dead  against  us: 
But  my  will  was  strong, 
And  when  I  saw  our  chosen  signal  — 
A  snow-white  kerchief  by  the  chimney-stack  — 
Waving  me  welcome,  with  the  welcome  word, 
That  you  were  safely  through, 
And  unto  me  a  son  was  born  — 
Wife,  I  was  mad  for  home, 
And  crazed  to  run  the  boat 
Against  the  odds  of  wind  and  water, 
Though  other  signals  warned  us  from  the  shore. 
What  did  I  care! 
My  mates  were  daft  with  fear, 
And  cried  out,  we'd  be  dashed  to  death 
Upon  the  Devil's  Tooth, 
But  more  they  feared  my  eyes  — 
My  eyes  that  saw  your  signal, 
Aflutter  with  fair  welcome ; 
And  we  rode  in, 

Against  the  odds  of  wind  and  wave  ; 
And  folk  ran  down  to  greet  us, 
As  if  we  had  been  snatched  from  death  ; 
Though  I  — 
I  did  not  heed  them, 
But  leapt  ashore, 
And  ran  to  you  — 


DAILY  BREAD  107 


To  you,  who'd  come  through  peril,  too, 

And  won  safe  into  harbour. 

And  then  I  saw  the  babe, 

Our  little  son, 

That  snuggled  to  your  breast, 

And  nestled  in  my  heart. 

MIRIAM.     My  bosom  yearns  for  him  . 
Your  heart  will  evermore  be  empty. 

DAVID.     Nay,  wife,  nay! 
Shall  not  your  breast  and  mine 
Be  ever  full  of  love  of  him? 
Sweet  memories  of  him 
Shall  nestle  in  our  hearts, 
For  evermore, 
And  we  have  still  each  other. 

MIRIAM.    And  our  son . 


"THE  FAMILY'S  PRIDE" 

Persons  : 

MARTHA  IRWIN,  a  -widow. 
KATHERINE  IRWIN,  her  daughter. 
AGNES  IRWIN,  her  daughter-in-law. 
EMMA  PRUDDAH,  a  neighbour. 

Scene:     MARTHA  IRWIN'S  cottage  at  dawn. 

KATHERINE.     She  has  not  stirred, 
Nor  spoken  all  the  night, 
Though  I  have  never  left  her. 

EMMA.     I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  her  face. 
My  man  still  slumbers  soundly; 
And,  it's  so  many  nights 
Since  he  has  stretched  his  body  on  a  bed, 
I  would  not  waken  him. 
There's  little  rest  for  men  at  sea, 
Cramped  in  a  narrow  bunk, 
Betwixt  the  watches, 
For  an  hour  or  so. 
And  he  has  slept  beside  me, 
All  night  long, 

As  soundly  as  a  boat  becalmed. 
And  it  was  good  to  see  him 
Sleeping  there, 

As  I  recalled  the  wakeful  nights 
I'd  lain  alone. 

It's  weary  waiting  for  your  man's  return  ; 
But,  when  he  comes  again  .  .  . 

KATHERINE.     She  has  not  stirred, 
Nor  spoken  once, 
Nor  lifted  up  her  eyes 
The  livelong  night; 
Nor  can  I  rouse  her  now. 
And  she  has  taken  neither  bite  nor  sup. 
Agnes,  John's  wife, 

108 


DAILY  BREAD  109 

And  Michael's  lass  have  been, 

Though  they,  poor  wenches, 

Were  distraught  themselves. 

But  nothing  rouses  her; 

And  she  has  scarcely  breathed, 

Since  first  I  broke  the  news  to  her, 

And  told  her  that  her  sons  were  drowned. 

She  stayed  at  home, 

While  I  went  down 

To  meet  the  Boats, 

Saying,  that  wives  and  maids 

Should  be  the  first  to  welcome 

The  men  on  their  return. 

EMMA.     'Twas  well  she  did  not  go. 

KATHERINE.     When  first  I  heard  the  tidings, 
I  was  stunned, 

And  stood  awhile,  dumfounded. 
Then  I  remembered  .  .  . 
And  I  shook  myself,  * 

And  ran  straight  home  to  her, 
Lest  she  should  hear  of  her  sons'  death 
From  any  stranger's  lips. 
She  stood  upon  the  threshold, 
'Waiting  them, 

A  smile  of  welcome  on  her  face. 
But  when  she  saw  me  come,  alone, 
She  caught  her  breath, 
And  looked  into  my  eyes, 
And  spoke  to  me, 
Ere  I  could  utter  aught: 
"  And  has  the  sea  kept  all?  " 
And  I  ... 

I  could  but  answer,  "  All!  " 
She  asked  no  more, 
But  turned  upon  her  heel, 
And  went  indoors, 
And  sat  down  by  the  hearth. 
She  has  not  stirred, 
Nor  spoken  since  to  me; 
Though  once  I  heard  her 
Murmur  to  herself 
Her  dead  sons'  names, 
Slowly,  as  though  she  feared 
Lest  they  should  slip  her  memory. 


no  DAILY  BREAD 

"  John,  William,  Michael,  Mark,  and  little  Pete, 

She  murmured  to  herself; 

And  neither  stirred  nor  spake  again. 

EMMA.     It's  well  that  you  are  left  her. 

KATHERINE.     My  name  she  did  not  breathe. 
I'm  naught  to  her; 
She  never  cared  for  me. 
Her  sons  were  all-in-all  to  her. 
I  grudged  them  not  her  whole  heart's  love  .  .  . 
My  brothers!  .  .  . 
Now  I've  none  but  her, 
And  she  has  no  one  left 
To  keep  life  in  her  heart. 

EMMA.     Nay,  do  not  say  so; 
You're  her  daughter,  lass. 

KATHERINE.     Her  sons  were  all-in-all, 
And  they  are  dead. 

'Twas  strange  she  never  asked  me  how  they  died ; 
She  must  have  seen  them  drowning 
In  my  eyes. 

And  I  have  told  her  nothing  more, 
For  she  has  asked  me  nothing. 
And  yet,  what  should  she  ask? 
What  was  there  left  to  tell  her  heart? 
Her  mother's  heart  knew  all, 
Ere  aught  was  told. 

EMMA.     Lass,  'twas  a  cruel  storm. 
My  husband  scarce  escaped. 
The  Family's  Pride  .  .  . 

KATHERINE.     Nay,  spare  me,  neighbour,  now. 
I  cannot  listen  to  that  tale  again  — 
I,  who  have  looked  upon  that  face  all  night, 
And  harkened  for  a  word  from  those  dumb  lips. 
Had  she  but  wept, 
Or  spoken  once  to  me, 
I  might  have  helped  her  somewhat, 
•        Even  I. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  lay  that  aching  brow 

In  slumber  on  my  breast. 

And  yet, 

I  dare  not  lay  my  hand  on  her, 

Lest  she  turn  round  on  me, 

And  realise 

That  only  I  am  left  her. 


DAILY  BREAD  in 

EMMA  [going  to  the  door}.     Agnes  comes, 
And  brings  her  babe  with  her. 
Perhaps  the  boy  will  rouse  your  mother. 

[To  AGNES,  as  she  enters.] 

Lass,  lay  him  in  her  lap. 

He'll  rouse  the  spark  of  life  in  her, 

And  wake  her  from  her  brooding  on  the  dead. 

[AcNES  goes  forward  without  speaking,  and  lays  the 
child  in  its  grandmother's  lap.  MARTHA  IR- 
WIN  gazes  at  it,  then  takes  it  to  her  breast, 
looking  up  at  AGNES.] 

MARTHA.    Yes,  I  will  tend  the  boy, 
While  you  go  down  .  .  . 
To  meet  your  husband,  Agnes. 
Lass,  away! 

The  Boats  will  soon  be  in, 
And  you  will  be  the  first  to  greet  .  .  . 
My  son  .  .  .  your  husband  .  .  . 
For  he's  yours  .  .  . 
As  well  as  mine  .  .  . 
And  I  must  share  with  you. 
The  Boats  will  soon  be  in, 
And  soon  my  eyes  shall  look  upon  my  sons  — 
My  bonnie  sons  .  .  . 
John,  William,  Michael,  Mark, 
And  little  Pete  .  .  . 
Though  even  Peter  is  not  little  now; 
He's  a  grown  man, 
Though  he's  my  youngest  son. 
And  still  .  .  . 

It  seems  but  such  a  little  while 
Since  I  held  John, 
My  eldest, 
In  my  arms, 
As  now  .  .  . 
I  hold  his  son. 
But  .  .  .  lass  .  .  .  away! 
To  greet  .  .  .  your  husband  .  .  . 
And  .  .  .  my  son  .  .  . 

AGNES.     O  God,  have  pity ! 


'ii2  DAILY  BREAD 

EMMA.     She  does  not  know  what  she  is  saying ; 
Her  grief  has  been  too  much  for  her. 

MARTHA.    Away  .  .  .  away  .  .  . 
You'll  be  too  late  .  .  . 
But,  Katherine, 
Stay  with  me  ... 
I  think  .  .  . 

I've  suddenly  grown  old, 
And  I  would  have  you  with  me  ... 
Till  .  .  .  they  come. 

EMMA.     Look  to  the  child ! 
She  doesn't  know  ... 
'Twill  fall! 

AGNES.     Nay,  but  I  have  it  safe. 

EMMA.     The  end  is  not  far  off. 

KATHERINE.     Come,  mother, 
Lay  your  head  upon  my  bosom. 

MARTHA.     Ah,  daughter,  is  that  you? 
Yes,  I  am  weary  .  .  . 
And  would  rest  awhile  .  .  . 
I  hope  they'll  come 
Before  it's  cold  .  .  . 
And  you  have  set  five  plates? 
And  not  forgotten  Peter's  knife? 
The  Boats  will  soon  be  in  ... 
And  I  shall  look  upon  my  sons, 
Once  more,  before  I  die  . 
For  I  am  nigh  death,  Katherine  .  .  . 
Hark  .  .  .  they  come  .  .  . 
Their  feet  are  on  the  threshold  .  .  . 
Katherine,  quick  .  .  . 
Fling  the  door  wide  .  .  . 
That  I  ...  may  look  .  .  . 
On  them  .  .  . 
My  sons  .  .  . 
My  sons  .  .  . 
Oh! 

KATHERINE.     Death  has  pitied  her. 


TH£  GARRET 

Persons: 

ISAAC  OXLEY. 
ADAH  ROBSON. 

Scene:  A  garret  in  the  slums,  furnished  only  with  a  bed.  It  is 
almost  midnight;  but  ADAH  ROBSON,  with  her  hat  and  jacket 
on,  and  an  old  carpet-bag  by  her  side,  sits  on  an  empty  box  by 
the  window,  in  the  light  reflected  from  the  lamps  in  the  court 
below.  Presently  a  step  is  heard  on  the  stairs;  the  door  opens, 
and  ISAAC  OXLEY  enters. 

ISAAC.     You  .  .  .  Adah  .  .  .  here! 

ADAH.     Yes,  Isaac,  I  have  come. 

ISAAC.     Come  .  .  .  Adah  .  .  .  come? 
But  how've  you  come  so  far? 

ADAH.     Much  of  the  way  I  walked ; 
And  only  took  the  train, 
When  I  could  trail  no  farther. 

ISAAC.     'Twas  a  long  way  for  you  to  come  alone. 
And  how,  lass,  did  you  find  me  — 
You,  who  had  never  seen  a  bigger  town 
Than  Morton,  with  its  one  long  straggling  street? 

ADAH.     I  had  the  letter  with  me  that  you  wrote, 
So  long  ago. 

And  folk  were  good  to  me. 
And,  when  I  was  dumbfounded  by  the  noise, 
And  by  the  throngs  of  people 
That,  like  a  never-ending  flock  of  sheep, 
Met  in  a  narrow  lane, 
Daft  with  the  yapping  of  the  dogs, 
Scurried  and  jostled  round  me, 
Some  one  would  pity  my  bewilderment, 
And  put  me  on  the  way;  ,- 

Though  many  that  I  asked 
Had  never  even  heard  of  Barker's  Court. 
But  all  of  them  were  kind, 


ii4  DAILY  BREAD 

And  did  their  best  to  help  me. 

ISAAC.     How  long  have  you  been  here? 

ADAH.     Close  on  three  hours. 

ISAAC.     So  long! 

ADAH.     I  could  have  cried, 
I  was  so  wearied; 
And  after  all, 
When  I  got  here,  to  find  you  out! 

ISAAC.     I'm  sorry,  lass. 
If  I'd  but  known  .  .  . 

ADAH.     The  neighbours  could  not  tell  me  where  you 

were; 

But  thought  that  night 
Would  bring  you  home. 

ISAAC.     Home,  lass! 
It's  well  that  you  won  hither, 
Safe  through  the  streets. 
Were  you  not  frightened,  Adah? 

ADAH.     Though  sore  bewildered, 
I  was  not  afraid. 
The  folk  were  kind. 

ISAAC.     Ay,  folk  are  kind  enough, 
As  far  as  words  go, 
And  are  always  willing 
To  squander  breath  on  strangers; 
For  city-folk  are  not  like  hill-folk,  Adah. 
But  why  did  you  leave  home? 

ADAH.     To  come  to  you  .  .  . 
But  you're  not  pleased  to  see  me. 

ISAAC.     Yes,  lass;  you  know  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 

ADAH.     Mother  died  last  week, 
And  I  have  no  one  else  to  turn  to. 
And,  Isaac,  when  you  went  away, 
You  said  you'd  come  again  for  me; 
And  that  is  nigh  a  year  since. 
I  waited  for  you; 
Yet  you  never  came. 
And  when  my  mother  died, 
I  had  no  home ; 
And  so  I  thought  .  .  . 
But,  maybe,  I  did  wrong 
To  come  to  you  like  this. 
But  you  .  .  . 
You  said  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  115 

And  still  you  did  not  come  ; 
And  only  wrote  one  letter. 
Why  did  you  never  come  for  me? 
You  said  you  would. 
When  you  had  found  .  .  . 

ISAAC.     When  I  had  found  a  home  for  you. 
But  I  have  found  no  home. 

ADAH.     Yet  this  .  .  . 

ISAAC.     This  is  no  home  for  you  — 
This  empty  garret. 

ADAH.     It's  bare; 
Still,  we  soon  .  .  . 

ISAAC.     We  soon! 
Nay,  you  must  not  stay  here; 
You  must  go  back  again. 

ADAH.     I  must  go  back? 

ISAAC.     You  must  go  home. 

ADAH.     I  have  no  home  .  .  . 
I  thought  .  .  . 
But  I  did  wrong  to  come. 
Forgive  me,  Isaac;  yet  ... 

ISAAC.     O  Adah,  lass, 
There's  nothing  to  forgive. 
But  you  can  never  live  here  — 
Here  in  this  reeking  hell. 
And  I  ... 
How  could  I  bear  to  see  you  starve  .  .  . 

ADAH.     To  see  me  starve! 
Why  should  I  starve? 
For  I  am  strong; 
And  I  can  work. 

ISAAC.     When  I  came  to  the  city  first, 
I,  too,  was  strong; 
And  I  could  work; 
And  yet, 
I  starve. 

ADAH.     Starve,  Isaac! 
Oh,  but  you  are  thin  and  worn! 
While  you  were  standing  in  the  dark, 
I  did  not  see; 

But  now  the  light  falls  on  you, 
You  look  famished. 
Are  you  not  working,  Isaac  ? 
Are  you  ill  — 


ii6  DAILY  BREAD 

Too  ill  to  work? 

ISAAC.     Nay,  Adah,  I'm  not  ill, 
Save  for  the  want  of  work. 
ADAH.     A  man  like  you, 
Who  used  to  work  .  .  . 

ISAAC.     Ay,  lass, 
While  there  was  work  for  me. 
You  know  how  hard  I  toiled  at  home, 
Until  my  father  died, 
And  Stephen  married; 
And  there  was  room  for  me  no  longer; 
And  not  a  cottage  in  the  countryside 
That  I  could  get, 
For  love  or  money, 
To  make  a  home 
For  you  and  me. 

And  I  was  forced  to  turn  my  back 
On  all  familiar  things  — 
On  all  that  I'd  grown  up  with, 
And  all  that  had  not  changed, 
Since  first  I  blinked  in  daylight; 
To  leave  my  friends, 
And  go  out  into  the  world, 
To  seek  my  fortune  among  strangers  — 
A  stranger  among  strangers  — 
To  seek  my  fortune! 

ADAH.     And  have  you  not  found  .  .  . 

ISAAC.     My  fortune? 
Ay,  here  is  my  fortune,  lass, 
This  empty  garret 
In  the  mouth  of  hell. 

ADAH.     Yet,  when  y«u  left, 
You  were  so  full  of  hope, 
And  said  that  in  the  city- 
There  would  be  work  enough; 
Ay,  and  a  home  for  us. 

ISAAC.     Yes,  I  was  hopeful, 
For  I  was  strong, 
And  full  of  meat, 

And  did  not  know  in  cities  strong  men  starve  • 
Starve  in  the  midst  of  plenty, 
And  wander,  homeless, 
In  a  maze  of  houses. 

ADAH.     But,  wherefor  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  117 

ISAAC.     Because  there  is  no  work  for  them. 
"  If  a  man  toil  not,  neither  shall  he  eat." 
It's  a  just  law,  I  thought, 
While  I  could  labour, 
And  eat  my  fill. 

But  when  there  was  no  work  for  me, 
And  I  saw  many  who  had  never  worked, 
Rich,  and  full-fed,  and  happy, 
While  old  men  starved, 
Because  work  failed  them, 
Things  seemed  quite  different. 
You  know  that  life's  not  easy 
For  us  poor  country  folk  at  any  time; 
Still,  at  the  worst, 

Up  ere  the  dawn,  and  labouring  till  dark, 
We  somehow  scrape  along 
On  hard-won  earnings; 
For  while  there's  work,  there's  hope; 
But  when  work  fails  .  .  . 

ADAH.     And  you  have  had  no  work, 
Since  you  left  home? 

ISAAC.     Nay,  none  that  I  call  work. 

ADAH.     How  have  you  lived? 

ISAAC.     You  know  I'd  saved  a  pound  or  two 
Towards  our  home  .  .  . 

ADAH.     But  that  would  never  serve  .  .  . 

ISAAC.     Nay,  'twas  soon  gone; 
Though  I  spent  sparingly  enough,  God, knows! 
I  should  have  died  without  it. 
It's  hungry  tramping  through  the  streets  all  day 
From  works  to  works, 
And  standing  in  the  throng 
Outside  the  factory  gates, 
Still  hoping  against  hope,  that  when  they  open, 
I,  too,  may  be  allowed  to  slip  inside. 
But  times  are  bad ; 
And  when  the  gates  close  to, 
I  ever  find  myself  among  the  crowd, 
Shut  out  from  work  and  bread. 

ADAH.     How  have  you  lived? 

ISAAC.     Why,  lass,  I  hardly  know  — 
An  odd  job  here  and  there; 
Enough  to  put  a  copper  in  the  pocket; 
Still,  never  fit  work  for  a  man  like  me. 


ii8  DAILY  BREAD 

These  hands,  lass,  were  not  made 
To  open  carriage  doors  — 
These  arms  to  carry  papers  — 
And  this  big,  hulking  body, 
To  scramble  in  the  gutter 
With  starveling  boys  for  life! 

ADAH.     Nay,  surely! 

ISAAC.     O  Adah,  you  must  go  away  from  here; 
For  here  men  starve; 
Ay,  men  and  women  starve; 
And  starving  folk  are  ill  to  live  with. 
Such  sights  I've  seen! 

I  did  not  think  that  hell  could  hold  such  sights. 
But  here,  where  hundreds  hunger, 
And  wander  shelterless  at  night, 
Or  sleep  beneath  dark  arches, 
Or  on  cold  benches,  wrapped  in  soaking  fog, 
Here  .  .  .  here  is  hell!  .  .  . 
Go  ...  go  ...  before  .  .  . 

ADAH.     O  Isaac,  you  are  ill! 

ISAAC.     Nay,  I'm  not  ill! 

ADAH.     Yet  you  seem  faint. 

ISAAC.     Naught  ails  me  —  save  starvation. 
One  cannot  trudge  all  day 
Without  a  bite  .  .  . 

ADAH.     Oh,  you  are  famished! 
And  I'm  hungry  too, 
For  I've  had  little  since  I  left. 
I  thought  to  find  you  sooner, 
And  then  together  .  .  . 

ISAAC.     You  are  hungry,  Adah! 
And  I  have  naught  to  offer, 
Not  a  crust. 

The  cupboard  is  quite  empty, 
As  empty  as  my  pocket. 
I  have  not  earned  a  copper  all  day  long. 

ADAH.     But  I've  some  money,  Isaac, 
Though  not  much; 
Still,  a  few  shillings. 
There  was  little  left 
When  mother  died. 
Yet,  while  there  is  a  penny, 
Why  should  we  sit  and  hunger? 
I'll  go  and  buy  some  food, 


DAILY  BREAD  119 

If  there's  a  bite  to  get  at  such  an  hour. 

ISAAC.     Yes,  there  is  always  food  to  get  .  .  . 
For  money. 

ADAH.     Then  I  will  go  ... 

ISAAC.     Nay,  you  shall  not  go  down 
Into  that  hell  at  such  a  time  of  night. 
I'll  get  the  food. 

ADAH.     But  you're  too  weak. 

ISAAC.     Nay,  I  am  strong  enough  .  .  . 
It  is  not  far. 

ADAH.     Then  take  the  purse. 

ISAAC.     Nay,  lass;  it's  safer  here; 
And  sixpence  is  enough  to  buy  a  feast. 
It's  long  since  I've  had  silver  in  my  hand. 
Would  God  that  I  had  earned  it! 
I  hardly  like  to  take  your  money. 

ADAH.     O  Isaac,  I  am  famished! 

ISAAC.     I'll  not  be  long. 

[He  goes  out,  and  is  heard  hurrying  downstairs. 
ADAH  takes  off  her  hat  and  jacket,  and  un- 
packs her  Hag,  laying  her  scanty  stock  of  clothes 
and  other  belongings  on  the  bed;  then,  unfold- 
ing a  parcel,  she  takes  out  a  cheap  tin  clock  and 
winds  it  up,  and  sets  it  on  the  mantelpiece, 
where  it  ticks  loudly  in  the  vacant  silence. 
After  a  while  ISAAC  returns,  carrying  a  basin 
of  coffee  and  a  chunk  of  bread,  which  he  lays 
on  a  box  beside  ADAH.] 

ADAH.     So  quickly ! 

ISAAC.     'Twas  not  far; 
And  I  came  back  as  quickly  as  I  could, 
Lest  it  should  get  too  cold, 
And  filled  with  fog. 
Come,  take  a  drink, 
While  there's  some  heat  in  it; 
'Twill  do  you  good. 

ADAH.     Nay,  you  drink  first. 
You  need  it  more  than  I. 

ISAAC.     Nay,  lass,  it's  yours. 
And  I  —  I  have  no  cup. 
I  paid  a  penny  for  the  basin ; 
But  they  will  make  that  good  again, 


120  DAILY  BREAD 

When  I  return  it. 

ADAH.     You'd  not  take  it  back  — 

The  first  thing  that  you've  bought  to  set  up  house  with! 
If  you've  no  cup, 

Can  we  not  drink  together  from  the  basin, 
As  man  and  wife 
In  their  own  home? 
We  are  not  strangers. 

ISAAC.     Set  up  house  .  .  . 
As  man  and  wife  .  .  . 
Together  .  .  . 
In  their  home  .  .  . 
Nay,  lass, 
That  cannot  be. 

You  shall  not  starve  for  my  sake. 
Oh,  had  you  seen  the  faces  round  the  stall  — 
The  hungry  faces  in  the  flare 
Of  naphtha,  and  the  eyes 
That  glared  out  from  the  shadows  greedily; 
And  as  I  passed  them  with  the  coffee, 
The  cold,  blue  lips  that  drank  up  the  rich  steam, 
As  though  they  feasted  .  .  . 

ADAH.     And  you'd  naught  for  them! 

ISAAC.     To  one  poor  girl  I  gave 
A  penny  of  your  money; 
A  child,  almost,  she  seemed! 

But  she  was  naught  but  skin  and  bone,  and  rags  — 
And  oh,  such  eyes; 
I  little  thought  I'd  live  to  see 
That  look  in  any  girl's  eyes. 
But  when  the  body  starves, 
The  best  of  us  are  weak; 
And  there's  small  blame 
To  such  as  she. 

ADAH.     Come  drink  your  coffee,  lad. 
It's  long  since  we  two  supped  together. 

ISAAC.     A  merry  meeting  this! 
Hark! 

What  is  that? 
A  clock! 
Where  did  it  come  from? 

ADAH.     Don't  you  know  it,  Isaac? 
I  brought  it  with  me; 
It's  my  very  own. 


DAILY  BREAD  121 

They  could  not  take  it  from  me. 
I'd  paid  for  it  at  Morton  Fair 
With  my  own  money. 
And,  while  you  were  gone, 
I-  took  it  from  my  bag, 
And  wound  it  up. 
Things  seemed  more  homelike 
When  I  heard  it  ticking. 

ISAAC.     Homelike  .  .  . 
Ay,  Adah,  there's  a  kind  of  comfort 
In  listening  to  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 
That  coffee's  made  another  man  of  me. 
This  garret  never  seemed  like  home  before. 
Yet,  since  you  came,  somehow  .  .  . 
But  you  must  go  to-morrow. 

ADAH.     Go  .  .  .  Isaac  .  .  .  where? 

ISAAC.     I  do  not  know. 
I  only  know, 
If  you  stay  here, 
You'll  starve. 

ADAH.     And  if  I  go,  I'll  starve. 
Why  should  we  starve  apart? 
But  we'll  not  starve,  lad, 
If  we  stick  together. 
We'll  win  through  somehow. 
Though  there's  none  for  you, 
There  may  be  work  for  me ; 
And  better  times  will  come, 
And  bring  you  work. 

ISAAC.     I've  trudged  the  streets, 
All  day  ... 

ADAH.     But  that  day's  gone; 
And  has  not  even  it  brought  something  to  you  ? 

ISAAC.     Ay;  though  it's  been  a  black  and  bitter  day  — 
The  ending's  brave. 
If  there  were  no  to-morrow  .  .  . 

ADAH.     We  don't  know  what  to-morrow  brings. 

ISAAC.     To-morrow ! 
Lass,  have  I  not  said 
Unto  my  heart  each  night 
To-morrow  will  bring  work? 
And  yet,  to-morrow 
Comes  ever  empty-handed. 

ADAH.     Nay,  surely,  Isaac, 


122  DAILY  BREAD 

Yesterday  your  garret 

Was  bare  save  for  the  bed  and  this  old  box. 
Now  have  you  not  a  clock  and  basin 
To  start  housekeeping  with? 

ISAAC.     And  you? 

ADAH.     If  you  will  let  me  stay  .  .  . 

ISAAC.     If  I  will  let  you  ...  let  you  .  .  . 
O  lass,  I  cannot  let  you  go  again. 
Though  we  should  starve  .  .  . 

ADAH.     We  shall  not  starve  .  .  . 
But  live  and  work  together.  [The  clock  strikes.] 

ISAAC.     It's  a  brave  clock. 

ADAH.     What!  three,  already! 
And  to-morrow  comes. 
The  day  is  not  far  off, 
Though  it  is  dark. 

ISAAC.     Ay,  lass; 

And  now,  at  home,  the  village  cocks 
Will  all  be  stretching  their  long  necks,  and  crowing. 


THE  SHIRT 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements,  near  the  railway.  CAROLINE  AL- 
DER sits  by  the  fire,  sewing.  ISA  GREY  is  standing  near  her, 
gazing  at  the  blaze.  The  clank  and  rumble  of  wagons  being 
shunted  sounds  loudly  through  the  night-air. 

CAROLINE.     Ay,  lass,  the  shirt's  for  Will ; 
I'll  not  be  sorry  when  it's  finished, 
Though  it's  the  last  I'll  make  for  him. 

ISA.    The  last? 

CAROLINE.     You'll  make  the  next,  I  trust. 
You  surely  don't  expect,  my  girl, 
I'll  still  be  making  for  him,  when  he's  married? 
You're  much  mistaken  .  .  . 

ISA.     Nay!  .  .  . 
But,  when  you  said  the  last,  somehow  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.     The  very  last ! 
And  well  I  mind  the  first  I  made, 
Or  ever  he  was  born, 
Nigh  twenty  year  ago; 
And  I  was  but  a  lass,  like  you; 
And,  as  I  sewed  it,  by  the  fire, 
His  father  sat  and  watched  me;  and  we  talked  .  .  . 
We  talked  of  him  .  .  . 
His  father  always  hoped  'twould  be  a  boy; 
And  yet,  before  he  came 
To  wear  the  shirt,  I'd  made  for  him  .  .  . 

ISA.     His  father  never  saw  him? 

CAROLINE.     Nay;  he'd  not  leave  his  engine, 
Although  the  fireman  leapt  .  .  . 

\_A  pause. ~\ 

But  'twas  a  dainty  shirt! 
For  I  had  eyes  in  those  days, 
And  nimble  fingers  too  — 
You  never  saw  the  like. 
Why,  this  would  make  a  score  of  it; 
He's  grown  a  bit  since  then! 
See,  what  a  neck  and  shoulders  — 
123 


i24  DAILY  BREAD 

His  father's,  to  an  inch! 
You'll  have  your  work  set  ... 

ISA.     Yes,  it's  big  enough. 

CAROLINE.     He's  just  his  father's  spit  and  image; 
And  he's  his  father,  in  more  ways  than  one. 
I've  never  had  a  wrong  word  from  his  lips. 
However  things  have  gone  with  him, 
He  always  comes  in  just  as  he  went  out. 
You're  lucky,  lass,  as  I  was  .  .  . 
Though  I  ... 

And  now  I've  made  his  shirts  for  twenty  year, 
Just  twenty  year,  come  Michaelmas. 
He's  aye  slept  snugly  in  my  handiwork. 
At  one  time,  I  could  scarce  keep  pace  with  him; 
He  sprouted  up  so  quickly; 
And  every  year,  I've  had  to  cut  them  bigger, 
Till  now  that  he's  a  man,  fullgrown  .  .  . 
And  still,  to-night,  somehow,  I  almost  wish 
That  I  was  hemming  baby-shirts  again, 
His  father,  sitting  by  me,  as  I  sewed  .  .  . 
But  you  will  soon  be  stitching,  lass  .  .  . 

ISA.     I  wonder  .  .  . 
How  clearly  we  can  hear  the  trains,  to-night! 

CAROLINE.     Perhaps  the  air  is  frosty; 
Though  I  have  always  seemed  to  hear  them  clearer 
Since  .  .  .  since  his  father  .  .  . 

ISA.     I  hate  to  hear  them  clanking. 

CAROLINE.     Ay,  lass ;  but  you'll  get  used  to  it, 
Before  you've  lived  here  long. 
I  couldn't  sleep  at  night  without  it  now. 
Once,  when  I  stayed  at  Mary's, 
I  could  not  sleep  a  wink  .  .  . 
The  quiet  seemed  so  queer  .  .  . 
I  missed  the  clank  .  .  . 

ISA.     I  never  shall  get  used  to  it. 
I  hate  that  clanking  .  .  . 
I  wish  that  Will  would  leave  the  shunting  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.     Ay,  coupling's  chancy  work; 
But  life's  a  chancy  thing,  at  best. 
And  other  jobs  are  bad  to  get; 
And  he's  a  steady  lad. 

ISA.     Yet,  if  he  slipped ! 

CAROLINE.     There's  little  fear  of  him; 
He's  always  been  surefooted,  from  a  boy; 


DAILY  BREAD  125 

And  such  a  nerve! 

I've  seen  him  walk  the  tiles  .  .  . 

ISA.     To  think  that  he'll  be  at  it  all  night  long! 

CAROLINE.     Well,  he  must  take  his  shift  among  the 

rest. 

It's  hard,  at  first,  to  miss  your  man,  at  night ; 
But,  wives  must  needs  get  used  to  it. 
My  man  was  often  gone  from  me, 
The  day  and  night  together; 
And  it  was  on  the  night-shift  .  .  . 
He  hadn't  slept  a  wink  for  days, 
For  he'd  been  sitting  up  with  me  — 
The  doctor  thought  I'd  scarce  pull  through  — 
But  he'd  to  go,  and  leave  me. 
I  never  saw  him  more. 
They'd  buried  him,  and  all, 
Ere  I  was  out  of  bed  again. 

[Pause.] 

But,  that  was  long  ago  — 
Nigh  twenty  year  — 
And  now,  his  son's  a  man ; 
And  soon  to  marry. 
There,  lass:  it's  almost  done: 
I've  just  one  button  now  .  .  . 

ISA.     I'll  sew  it  on. 
I've  never  done  a  stitch  for  him. 

CAROLINE.     Nay!  it's  the  last  I'll  make  for  him: 
And  no  one  else  must  have  a  hand  in  it. 
You'll  have  enough  to  do, 
Before  you've  long  been  married  .  .  . 

ISA.     I  wonder  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.     Wonder,  lass! 
What's  wrong  with  you  to-night  ? 
You  seem  so  ...  why,  you're  all  atremble! 

ISA.     The  trains  have  stopped  .  .  . 
I  cannot  hear  a  sound. 

CAROLINE.     Ay,  lass:  it's  queer  .  .  . 
But  soon  they'll  start  again. 
I  never  knew  such  quiet  .  .  . 

ISA.     That  they  would  all  start  clanking! 
I  cannot  bear  the  silence  .  .  . 

CAROLINE.     It's  time  that  you  were  getting  home  to 

bed: 
You're  overwrought  to-night. 


DAILY  BREAD 

ISA.     I  wish  I  knew  .  .  . 
There's  not  a  sound  yet  ... 
CAROLINE.     Nay,  lass,  hark! 

[An  express  thunders  by,  shaking  the  houses.} 

ISA.     Well,  I'll  be  getting  home. 
Goodnight ! 

CAROLINE.     Goodnight ! 
There,  that's  the  last  stitch  done. 
Is't  not  a  brave  shirt,  lass! 
It's  ready  for  him  when  he  comes. 

[ISA  goes  out,  and  down  the  stairs.] 

She's  overwrought  a  bit. 

About  the  time  that  I  was  wed  .  .  . 

It's  strangely  quiet  now  again  .  .  . 

I  never  knew  .  .  . 

They  must  have  finished  shunting  .  .  . 

Yet  ... 

[She  stands,  listening,  as  a  hurrying  step  is  heard  on 
the  stairs,  and  ISA  bursts  into  the  room,  pant- 
ing.} 

CAROLINE.     What's  wrong,  lass! 

ISA.    Will!    O,  Will! 

CAROLINE.     Speak,  woman,  speak! 

ISA.     They're  bringing  him  .  .  . 
I  met  them  in  the  street  .  .  . 
OWill!    OWill! 

CAROLINE.     His  son  ...  too  ... 

[CAROLINE  picks  up  the  shirt  which  has  fallen  from 
her  hand.  They  stand  silent,  waiting:  and 
there  is  no  sound  in  the  room,  until  the  shunt- 
ing of  wagons  starts  again,  when  ISA  puts  her 
fingers  to  her  ears,  and  sinks  to  the  ground.} 

ISA.     'Twill  never  stop  again ; 
I'll  always  hear  .  .  . 


THE  MOTHER 

Persons: 

ROSE  ALLEN,  a  young  widow. 

HER  CHILD. 

ANNIE  FEATHERSTONE,  Rose  Allen's  sister. 

Scene:  A  lonely  moorland  cottage,  in  the  early  morning.  The 
•child  sleeps  on  the  bed.  ANNIE  FEATHERSTONE  is  tending 
the  fire  when  ROSE,  dressed  as  for  a  holiday,  enters  from  the 
other  room. 

ANNIE.     You  are  not  going,  surely, 
After  all! 

ROSE.     Why  not? 
The  boy  is  better. 

ANNIE.     Better,  Rose? 

ROSE.     Well,  he's  no  worse  to-day  than  yesterday. 

ANNIE.     I  think  he's  worse. 

ROSE.     You  think? 

You  always  think  the  worst  of  everything. 
Don't  you  remember  .  .  . 

ANNIE.     I  remember  much. 

ROSE.  Then  you  must  know 
How  often  you've  cried  "  wolf !  " 
Already,  Annie. 

Had  you  but  children  of  your  own, 
You'd  know  how  little  makes  them  sick, 
How  quickly  they  recover; 
And  would  not  fret  yourself 
At  every  baby  ailment, 
Nor  see  a  tragedy 
In  every  prick  or  scratch. 
He  sleeps, 
And  little  ails  a  child  when  he  can  sleep. 

ANNIE.     But  how  he  tosses! 
It's  no  healthy  slumber. 
His  hands  are  hot  and  restless, 
127 


128  DAILY  BREAD 

His  brow's  afire  — 
Come,  feel  it. 

ROSE.     Why,  that's  nothing,  Annie. 
It's  the  old  story  — 
Spinster's  children  .  .  . 
You  know  the  rest. 

ANNIE.     I  know  the  rest. 

ROSE.     Ah,  well! 
But  you  should  know  a  mother 
Has  something  else  to  do 
Than  break  her  heart,  whenever 
A  fractious  baby  pukes  and  pules, 
Or  sit  and  weep  her  eyes  out 
At  every  scratch  and  tumble. 
How  should  we  get  through  life, 
If  we  paid  heed 

To  every  whine  and  whimper? 
But  even  you 

Will  learn  in  time,  perhaps, 
And  ... 

ANNIE.     Even  I ! 

ROSE.     Yes,  even  you. 
But  don't  be  angry  with  me, 
And  think  that  I  don't  love  my  child. 
You  know  how  much  I  love  him, 
Though  he's  so  troublesome; 
And  how  I've  worked 
My  fingers  to  the  bone 
To  keep  him,  since  his  father  died. 
My  life  is  hard  enough,  God  knows! 
And  must  I  miss  the  little  fun  life  offers? 
I  get  so  little  pleasure; 
And  Morton  Fair  comes  only  once  a  year. 
But  you  are  hard, 
And  you'd  deny  me  this. 
Ah,  well! 
Then  I  must  stay. 

ANNIE.     I  would  deny  you  nothing,  child. 

ROSE.     You  call  me  "  child !  " 
Then  you  are  angry. 
But  I'll  not  quarrel  with  you. 
Child! 

Yes,  I'm  young  — 
I  wedded  young  — 


DAILY  BREAD  129 

But  you  are  old  and  wise, 

And  never  cared  for  fairings. 

There's  but  twelve  months  betwixt  us, 

And  yet,  what  years  and  years! 

A  widow  and  a  mother,  too,' 

I  am  not  half  as  old. 

I  wonder  if  I'll  ever  be  ... 

ANNIE.     Nay  you  will  never  be  as  old  as  I  ... 

ROSE.     Never  ? 
How  can  you  know? 
Do  you  foretell  my  death  ? 
Shall  I  not  live  to  see  the  year  out? 

ANNIE.     Though  you  should  live  to  see 
A  hundred  years  out, 
You  will  still  be  young. 

ROSE.     Ah,  now  I  understand  you. 
You  frightened  me  at  first 
With  your  long  face  and  solemn  words. 
You  mean  my  heart  is  young, 
And  think  I'm  thoughtless. 
Yet,  a  girl 

Can  hardly  go  through  all  that  I've  gone  through, 
And  still  be  thoughtless. 
Annie,  I  know  life 
As  you  have  never  known  it. 

[ The  clock  strikes.] 
Is  that  five? 
But  I  must  go. 
If  I'm  to  catch  the  train. 
It's  full  three  hours'  fast  walking. 
I've  stood  too  long  already, 
Chattering. 
Well,  lass,  good-bye. 

ANNIE.     You  have  not  kissed  the  boy  "  good-bye." 

ROSE.     He  sleeps  so  soundly, 
I'll  not  waken  him. 
Now,  lass,  you  see 

That  I'm  the  careful  mother  after  all, 
And  I  deny  myself  for  him. 
How  sweet  he  sleeps! 
I'll  bring  him  home  a  fairing 
Which  he  will  like  far  better 
Than  all  your  precious  kisses. 


130  DAILY  BREAD 

And  now  you're  angry  with  me, 
Though  I  meant  nothing,  Annie. 
You  must  not  worry  so. 
You  know  I  love  him, 
And  would  bide  at  home, 
Did  I  not  know  I  leave  him 
In  safe  hands. 
Still,  if  you  mind  .  .  . 

ANNIE.     I  do  not  mind. 

ROSE.     Good-bye,  then. 
I  could  not  leave  the  boy  in  better  ham 


[Goes  oz//.] 


ANNIE.     And  she  has  gone  through  all, 
And  yet, 
Knows  naught! 
Life  has  not  touched  her, 
Though  a  man  has  spent 
His  whole  heart's  love  on  her  ; 
And  she  has  stood 
Beside  her  husband's  deathbed ; 
And  borne  his  child  within  her  womb, 
Yet,  she's  unchanged, 
And  still  a  child, 

As  ignorant  of  life  as  her  poor  babe. 
While  I,  whom  life  denied 
All,  save  the  yearning, 
I  am  old  at  heart. 
Life  fed  her  to  the  full, 
While  I  went  hungry  for  the  crumbs. 
Already  I  am  old  and  famine-worn, 
While  she  is  young  and  careless. 
Passion  has  brought  no  tenderness  to  her; 
She  never  has  known  love  — 
Nay,  though  she  drank  a  strong  man's  love, 
His  very  life-blood,  yet, 
She  knew  not  what  she  drank. 
She  drained  that  draught 
As  though  'twere  water, 
And  soon  forgot  the  cup, 
When  it  was  empty, 
And  broken  at  her  feet. 
And  now  the  crystal  spring  of  baby-love 


DAILY  BREAD  131 

Is  spilt  in  vain  for  her, 

While  I  am  parched, 

And  thirst  for  one  sweet  drop. 

Ah,  God,  have  I  not  thirsted! 

And  yet  the  cup 

Has  ever  passed  my  lips, 

Untasted  .  .  . 

Now  I  never  shall  drink  life. 

His  love  had  hot  been  spent,  in  vain, 

On  me, 

Had  life  but  let  him  love  me, 

As  I  loved. 

But  he  ... 

He  was  so  happy  in  his  love, 

And  I  —  I  loved 

To  see  him  happy  in  his  love. 

And  still  my  selfish  heart 

Was  often  sore 

That  he  could  be  so  happy, 

While  I  ... 

And  yet, 

He  never  knew  of  my  unhappiness, 

For  Rose  was  all  the  world  to  him; 

And  I, 

But  Rose's  shadow  — 

She,  ever  fresh  and  fair, 

And  I,  so  gloomy; 

And  he  loved  the  light, 

And  never  knew  his  star  was  cold  at  heart. 

Thank  God,  he  did  not  know  — 

Not  even  in  the  end ! 

What  would  not  I  have  given  for  the  right 

To  stand  beside  him  at  the  last, 

And  hold  his  hand  in  mine  — 

To  lay  that  weary  head  upon  my  bosom! 

I  burned  with  love  for  him. 

And  still,  denied  all  else, 

Had  it  been  mine 

To  bring  him  balm  and  quiet  in  the  end, 

And  spend  on  him  a  mother's  tenderness, 

I  should  have  been  content  ...  I  think  .  .  . 

And  yet, 

Had  things  been  otherwise, 

Was  not  my  heart 


I32  DAILY  BREAD 

His  heart's  true  mate  ? 

But  he  ... 

His  child  another  bore  him, 

And  scarcely  knew  that  'twas  his  child  — 

His  child,  that  should  have  brought  into  her  breast 

The  milk  of  tenderness, 

And  to  her  heart,  the  light  of  understanding. 

His  child,  and  fatherless! 

But  motherhood  to  her  meant  little. 

A  cold  and  careless  wife, 

So  is  she  now  a  careless  mother. 

The  pangs  and  labouring 

Of  travail  taught  her  nothing. 

She  rose  from  off  her  bearing-bed 

As  easily  as  she  had  left 

The  deathbed  of  her  love. 

'Twas  I,  indeed, 

Who  bore  the  pangs  of  travail 

To  bring  his  child  to  birth  — 

Ay,  even  as  on  me 

Fell  the  whole  burden  of  the  husband's  death. 

[The  child  wakens  and  stirs  restlessly.] 

THE  CHILD.     Mother! 

ANNIE.    Yes,  son. 
He  does  not  know  me. 
And  am  not  I  his  mother! 
She  only  bore  his  body  .  .  . 

THE  CHILD.     Mother,  a  drink. 

ANNIE.     And  she  ... 
She  is  not  here! 
Drink  this,  my  son. 
You  are  his  son  .  .  .  and  mine! 
Your  young  soul  was  brought  forth 
Of  my  great  love  for  him, 
The  father  of  your  soul. 
Have  I  not  mothered  it, 
And  nurtured  its  young  life 
With  my  heart's  love, 
•    And  fed  it  on  the  milk  of  tenderness? 
He  sleeps  again,  our  child. 
Her  eyes  he  has; 
But  when  he  sleeps, 


DAILY  BREAD  133 

She  has  no  part  in  him. 

Then  he  is  all  his  father  .  .  . 

And  all  mine  — 

All  mine,  all  mine, 

My  babe,  my  babe! 

He  sleeps  .  .  . 

And  yet  ... 

I  fear  ... 

He  lies  so  still. 

0  God,  and  I, 
His  mother, 
Can  do  naught, 
Alone  and  helpless, 
In  this  wilderness! 
Had  she  not  gone  .  .  . 
But  I, 

What  can  I  do? 

1  dare  not  leave  him,  yet  scarce  dare  to  bide. 
If  there  were  but  a  neighbour  .  .  . 

But  where  could  I  seek  help  .  .  . 

If  help  there  be  at  all 

For  him  in  this  world  now? 

He  stirs  again. 

Nay,  I  must  stay  with  him, 

My  babe,  my  babe ! 

Don't  fear ; 

I'll  not  forsake  you! 

And,  in  the  end, 

You  shall  not  lack  a  mother's  hand 

Upon  your  brow, 

Nor  lack  a  mother's  bosom 

On  which  to  lay  your  head. 

THE  CHILD.     Mother  .  .  . 
A  drink  .  .  . 

ANNIE.     Your  thirst  is  quenched. 
Those  lips  will  never  breathe  that  word  again. 
Much  have  I  craved  of  life  .  .  . 
And  it  is  given  to  me 
To  close  your  eyes  in  death. 
My  child,  my  child ! 
Now  you  are  ours,  all  ours  .  .  . 
All  his  ...  and  mine! 

[The  day  wears  slowly  through  as  ANNIE  watches 


134  DAILY  BREAD 

by  the  dead  child.     In  the  late  afternoon  the 
door  opens,  and  ROSE  ALLEN  enters.] 

ROSE.     Am  I  not  a  good  mother? 
I've  left  the  Fair  half  over. 
I  could  not  stay, 
For  something  made  me  anxious. 
Your  words  kept  dinning  in  my  ears, 
And  spoilt  the  fun ; 
And  so  I  left  quite  early; 
And  yet, 

I  did  not  quite  forget  my  boy, 
Though  I'm  so  careless,  Annie. 
I  bring  a  fairing  for  him  — 
See! 

A  jumping  .  .  . 
Does  he  sleep? 
He  lies  so  very  still. 

ANNIE.    Yes,  he  sleeps  sound. 


THE  FURNACE 

Persons: 

JACOB  PRINGLE,  a  stoker. 
ELEANOR  PRINGLE,  his  wife. 
THEIR  CHILDREN. 
BESSIE  PURDHAM,  a  neighbour. 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements.  JACOB  PRINGLE,  his  head  and 
bod"y  swathed  in  bandages,  lies  on  the  bed,  unconscious,  moan- 
ing incessantly.  ELEANOR  PRINGLE,  with  her  young  baby 
at  her  breast,  stands  near  the  door,  talking  to  BESSIE  PURD- 
HAM. The  other  two  children,  aged  three  and  two  years, 
stand  silent  by  the  bed,  gazing  wonderingly  at  their  father. 

BESSIE.     I  heard  the  doctor  go; 
And  so  I've  come 
To  see  if  I  may  help  you. 

ELEANOR.     There's  nothing  more  to  do. 

BESSIE.     I  thought,  perhaps  .  .  . 

ELEANOR.     There's  nothing  more  to  do. 
The  doctor  and  the  nurse  did  all  they  could, 
Before  they  left. 
They  only  went, 

When  they  could  do  no  good  by  staying. 
They,  said  they'd  come  again  to-night, 
If  he  ...  if  he  ... 

BESSIE.     Nay,  don't  take  on  so,  woman. 
Your  man  will  soon  be  well  again. 
Keep  a  brave  heart  within  you. 

ELEANOR.     The  doctor  says  there's  little  hope. 

BESSIE.     'Twas  strange  to  bring  him  here. 

ELEANOR.     Here,  to  his  home? 
Does  it  seem  strange  to  you 
To  bring  him  home? 
Where  would  you  have  him  taken  ? 
They  brought  him  home  .  .  .  Ah,  God! 

BESSIE.     The  hospital  .  .  . 

ELEANOR.     It  was  too  far. 
i35 


136  DAILY  BREAD 

The  doctor  said : 
'Twas  not  worth  while 
Xo  take  him  such  a  journey, 
When  there  was  little  hope. 
And  so, 

They  did  not  pass  the  door, 
To  bear  him  among  strangers, 
But  brought  him  in, 
And  laid  him  on  the  bed. 
'Twas  not  worth  while  .  .  . 
And  so  they  brought  him  home, 
Home  to  his  wife  and  children. 
'Twas  not  worth  while  .  .  . 

BESSIE.     How  did  it  happen? 

ELEANOR.     None  can  tell. 
They  found  him  on  his  face 
Before  the  furnace-door, 
The  life  well-nigh  burnt  out  of  him; 
His  head,  and  breast,  and  hands  .  .  . 
Oh,  it's  too  terrible  to  think  of,  neighbour! 

BESSIE.     He  must  have  fainted. 

ELEANOR.     None  will  ever  know, 
Unless  .  .  . 

But,  he's  not  spoken  since. 
He  only  moans,  and  moans; 
The  doctor  says  that  he's  not  conscious, 
And  cannot  feel  it  much, 
And  mayn't  come  to  himself  again. 
If  he  should  never  speak ! 

BESSIE.     'Twas  strange  that  he  ... 
He  seemed  so  strong  .  .  . 

ELEANOR.     They  say  his  shovel 
Had  tumbled  in  the  furnace,  and  the  heat 
Had  crumpled  it  like  paper; 
And  it  was  almost  melted; 
And  he  himself  had  only  fallen  short. 
His  head,  and  breast,  and  hands  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  he  moans ! 

The  doctor  says  he  cannot  feel  much; 
And  still  he  moans,  and  moans. 
He  has  not  spoken  .  .  . 
If  he  should  never  speak  .  .  . 
If  he  should  not  come  to  himself  .  .  . 
If  he  ...  Ah,  God! 


DAILY  BREAD  137 

And  he  so  young ! 

BESSIE.     How  old's  your  husband?  . 

ELEANOR.     Twenty-three  next  March. 

BESSIE.     So  young!     And  you? 

ELEANOR.     Just  twenty,  turned. 

BESSIE.     Why,  you  are  only  children, 
The  pair  of  you ! 

ELEANOR.     Yet  he's  a  father, 
I,  a  mother  .  .  . 

A  father  .  .  .  and  his  children  — 
What  can  his  children  do, 
If  he  should  leave  them, 
And  they,  but  babes, 
And  Winter  coming  on  ? 

BESSIE.     He  may  be  well  before  then ; 
And  they've  you. 

ELEANOR.     What  can  I  do  without  him? 

BESSIE.     You  can  but  do  your  best. 
If  only  they'd  been  boys  .  .  . 
Still,  keep  a  brave  heart,  woman; 
For,  surely,  at  the  worst, 
The  masters  will  do  something; 
And  there'll  be  money  .  .  . 

ELEANOR.     Money  .  .  .  woman  .  .  .  money! 
I  want  naught  with  their  money. 
I  want  my  husband, 
And  my  children's  father. 
Let  them  pitch  all  their  money  in  the  furnace 
Where  he  ... 
I  wouldn't  touch  a  penny  ; 
'Twould  burn  my  fingers. 
Money  .  .  . 
For  him! 

BESSIE.     You  wouldn't  have  your  children  starve? 
Money  is  bread  .  .  . 

ELEANOR.     Nay ;  but  I'll  work  for  them : 
They  shall  not  want, 
While  I  can  lift  a  finger. 
He  loves  them, 

And  has  slaved  so  hard  for  them. 
If  he  can  work  no  more, 
Am  I  not  strong  to  work  ? 
He  is  so  proud  of  them. 
And  oft  when  he  comes  home  . 


1 38  DAILY  BREAD 

Ah,  God,  they  brought  him  home! 

And  he  has  never  spoken ; 

He  has  no  word  for  them  — 

He  who  was  always  cheery, 

And  dandled  them,  and  danced  them, 

And  tossed  them  to  the  ceiling. 

Look,  how  they  wait,  poor  babes! 

They  cannot  understand 

Why  he  should  say  no  word, 

But  only  moan,  and  moan  .  .  . 

Ah,  how  he  moans! 

He  tries  to  speak,  I  think. 

If  he  should  speak! 

JACOB    [in  a  hoarse  whisper}.     The  big,  red,  gaping 
mouth  .  .  . 

ELEANOR.     Ah,  God,  he's  wandering! 

BESSIE.     He  thinks  he's  at  the  furnace. 

JACOB.     I  feed,  and  feed,  and  feed  it, 
And  yet  it's  never  full; 
But  always  gaping,  gaping, 
And  licking  its  red  lips. 
I  feed  it  with  my  shovel, 
All  night  long. 
I  shovel  without  ceasing ; 
But  it  just  licks  the  coke  up  in  a  twinkling, 
And  roars,  and  roars  for  more. 
I  cannot  feed  it  faster; 
And  it's  angry. 
I  shovel  all  night  long, 
Till  I  can  scarcely  stand. 
The  sweat  pours  out  of  me; 
And  then  it  licks  the  sweat  up  with  its  breath, 
And  roars  more  fiercely. 
My  eyes  are  coals  of  fire ; 
My  arms  can  scarcely  lift 
Another  shovelful  .  .  . 

Oh,  how  it  roars,  and  roars!     It's  angry      *  : 
Because  I  cannot  feed  it  fast  enough. 
The  red  tongue  licks  the  shovel, 
As  though  it  would  devour  it. 
The  shovel  is  red-hot  .  .  . 
It  melts  ...  it  melts  .  .  . 
It's  melting  in  my  hands  .  .  . 
I  cannot  drop  it  ... 


DAILY  BREAD  139 

My  hands  are  full  of  molten  iron. 
Water  ...  Ah,  God! 
My  hands  .  .  .  my  hands! 
Oh! 

ELEANOR.     And  there  is  nothing  I  can  do  for  him ! 
I  am  his  wife: 
And  still,  I  can  do  nothing. 
The  doctor  said,  there  was  no  more  to  do. 
They  left  me  naught  to  do  for  him. 

BESSIE.     Nay,  lass,  there's  nothing  to  be  done. 
He's  quiet  now. 
Perhaps  he'll  sleep. 

JACOB.     The  great,  red  eyes  .  .  . 
They  burn  me  through  and  through. 
They  glare  upon  me  all  night  long; 
They  never  sleep : 
But  always  glower  on  me. 
They  never  even  blink  ; 
But  stare,  and  stare  .  .  . 
I  cannot  look  upon  them  any  longer  — 
I  cannot  face  them  .  .  .  still  .  '.  . 
Ah,  God,  I  cannot  shut  them  out ! 
They  burn  right  through  my  eyelids, 
And  set  my  eyes  afire. 
My  eye-lids  are  red-hot, 
And  scorch  my  eyes  .  .  . 
My  eyes,  my  eyes! 
Oh,  I  would  tear  them  out  .  .  . 
But  I  .  :  .  I  cannot  lift  my  hands; 
They're  full  of  molten  iron. 
My  hands ! 
Oh! 

BESSIE.     He  seems  quite  spent. 
Perhaps  the  worst  is  over. 

ELEANOR.     Oh,  would  to  God  .  .  . 

JACOB.     The  big,  red,  gaping  mouth  .  .  . 
It  gapes, 

And  licks  its  lips, 
And  roars,  and  roars  for  food. 
I  cannot  breathe, 
Its  hot  breath  stifles  me. 
It  puffs  at  me, 
Then  tries  to  suck  me  in  — 
Into  that  roaring  hell. 


DAILY  BREAD 

It  gapes  ...  it  gapes  .  .  . 

For  me! 

I  cannot  feed  it  fast  enough ; 

And  it  is  angry, 

And  roars,  and  roars  with  hunger. 

Some  night  the  red  tongue  will  shoot  out  and  lick  me 

Into  that  blazing  hell-mouth  — 

Will  lick  me  to  a  cinder, 

A  handful  of  white  ash. 

It  will  shoot  out  .  .  . 

Ah,  God! 

The  fiery  tongue 

Is  all  about  me  now; 

It  wraps  me  round  and  round, 

And  licks  me  in. 

At  last  the  furnace  has  me  — 

The  furnace  that  I  feared. 

I  burn  .  .  . 

ELEANOR.     That  he  should  suffer  so ! 
Ah,  God,  that  he  might  .  .  . 

THE  ELDEST  CHILD.     Mother,  what's  a  furnace? 

ELEANOR.     Ah,  child,  that  you  should  hear! 
I  scarcely  knew  you  listened. 
A  furnace  is  the  mouth  .  .  . 
Nay,  it's  a  fire  — 
A  big,  big  fire. 

CHILD.    A  fire? 
But  why  is  Daddy  frightened? 
I  do  not  fear  the  fire. 
I  sit  quite  close, 
And  warm  my  hands. 
I'd  love  a  big,  big  fire, 
And  would  not  be  afraid  of  it : 
So,  why  is  Daddy? 
I've  often  sat  upon  his  knee, 
Quite  close, 

And  watched  the  pretty  flames. 
He  never  told  me  he  was  frightened, 
Or  I'd  have  held  his  hand. 

ELEANOR.     And  he  will  nevermore 
Sit  by  the  hearth, 
His  children  on  his  knee, 
And  listen  to  their  prattle. 
He  was  proud  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  141 

BESSIE.     He  does  not  moan  so  much, 
And  hardly  moves. 
I  think  .  .  . 
But,  hark! 

He  tries  to  speak  again. 
His  voice  is  weaker; 
He  can  scarcely  whisper. 

JACOB.     O  mother,  do  you  see  the  little  flame 
That  leaps  above  the  bars, 
And  dances  in  and  out? 
Look  how  he  dances,  dances, 
Upon  the  red-hot  coals. 
Oh,  now,  he's  gone  — 
He  must  have  heard  me  talking. 
But  there  he  is  again: 
And  laughing  at  me, 
And  waving  his  red  cap. 

BESSIE.     The  worst  is  over. 
He's  easier  now. 

ELEANOR.     His  mind   is  wandering  back  to   his  old 

home. 

He's  heard  the  child ; 
And  thinks  that  he's  a  child,  too. 

JACOB.     I  love  to  watch  the  fire ; 
And  when  I  am  a  man, 
I'll  mind  a  furnace,  mother, 
And  feed  it  all  day  long  ; 
And  watch  it  blaze; 
And  listen  to  its  roaring. 
Look,  mother,  do  you  see  the  little  flame, 
That  runs  right  down  into  that  deep,  red  hollow; 
And  waves  to  me  to  follow  after? 
I'd  like  to  follow  him, 
And  run  right  down  — 
Right  down  that  golden  lane, 
Among  the  dancing  flames, 
And  dance  with  them. 
Ah,  there  he  is  ; 
And  laughing  at  me, 
And  waving  his  red  cap  .  .  . 
And  dancing  ...  dancing  ...  [A  pause. ] 

CHILD.  O  mother,  look, 
The  fire  has  gone  quite  out; 
And  I  am  cold. 


i42  DAILY  BREAD 

BESSIE.     He  moans  no  longer  .  .  . 

ELEANOR.     He  seems  more  easy  .  . 
He  does  not  stir  .  .  . 
How  quiet  he  has  grown  .  .  . 
It's  strange,  he  lies  so  still, 
So  suddenly  .  .  . 
That  he  would  speak  to  me ! 

BESSIE.     Ay,  he  is  easy  now ; 
But  he  will  never  stir  again,  nor  speak 

ELEANOR.     Jacob ! 

CHILD.     He  is  not  frightened  now. 


THE  CHILD 

Persons: 

AMOS  WOODMAN. 

JOAN  WOODMAN,  his  wife. 

Scene:  A  garret  in  the  slums.  It  is  afternoon  and  a  gleam  of 
sunshine,  struggling  through  the  grimy  window,  reveals  the 
nakedness  of  the  room,  which  is  quite  bare  of  furniture.  In 
one  corner  JOAN  WOODMAN  crouches  by  a  heap  of  rags  ind 
straw,  on  which  is  lying  the  dead  body  of  her  child.  She  is 
a  young  woman,  but  looks  older  than  her  years,  being  worn 
and  haggard  with  want  and  suffering.  The  door  opens  ind 
AMOS  WOODMAN  enters,  wearily.  He  is  lame  and  coughs  al- 
most incessantly.  As  he  pauses  on  the  threshold,  his  wife  rises 
and  goes  towards  him. 

JOAN.     He's  gone. 

AMOS.     Forgive  me,  Joan. 

JOAN.     Forgive  you,  Amos? 

AMOS.     Ay,  forgive  me  — 
Forgive  me  that  I  left  you  with  the  child. 
I  could  not  bear 
To  sit  and  watch  him  dying, 
When  there  was  nothing  I  could  do  to  save  him. 

JOAN.     'Twas  better  that  you  went. 
It  is  not  good  to  see  a  baby  die  ... 
And  yet  ... 
When  all  was  over, 
I  knew  'twas  best. 

AMOS.     Best,  wife? 

JOAN.     Yes,  husband  ; 
For  he  suffers  nothing  now. 

AMOS.     Ah,  how  he  suffered ! 
And  I, 
His  father, 

Could  do  naught  to  ease  him. 
He  cried  for  bread ; 

143 


144  DAILY  BREAD 

And  I  —  I  had  no  bread  — 
I  had  no  bread  to  give  him. 
Perhaps  it's  best  ... 
And  yet  ... 
If  he'd  but  lived  .  .  . 

JOAN.     Lived,  Amos? 
It's  not  good  to  see  a  baby  starve  — 
To  watch  him  wasting  day  by  day, 
To  hear  him  crying  .  .  . 

AMOS.     Yes,  he  cried  for  bread  — 
And  I,  his  father,  had  no  bread  to  give  him. 
I  would  have  worked  these  fingers  to  the  bone, 
To  save  him  — 
To  the  bone! 

They're  little  else  already. 
But  times  are  bad, 
And  work  is  slack, 

And  so  I  needs  must  watch  my  baby  starving  — 
Must  sit  with  idle  hands  and  see  him  starving  - 
Must  watch  him  starve  to  death; 
His  little  body  wasting  day  by  day; 
The  hunger  gnawing  at  his  little  life; 
His  weak  voice  growing  weaker. 
He  cried  for  bread  .  .  . 

JOAN.     He'll  cry  no  more. 
He  feels  no  hunger  now; 
And  wants  for  nothing. 

AMOS.     Ay,  he's  quiet  .  .  . 
We'll  never  hear  his  voice  again. 
If  he'd  but  lived  .  .  . 
Yet  he  is  free  from  pain  now, 
And  will  not  thirst  nor  hunger  any  more. 
And  though,  if  no  help  comes, 
We  two  must  starve. 

The  hunger  will  no  longer  gnaw  our  hearts, 
Knowing  that  he's  beyond  the  clutch  of  hunger. 

JOAN.     Ay,  we  must  starve,  it  seems, 
If  you  have  found  no  work; 
Though  I  am  free  now  .  .  . 
Free  to  seek  for  work. 
He  does  not  need  me  now ; 
And  nevermore  will  need  me. 
Ah,  God,  I'm  free  .  .  . 
Free! 


DAILY  BREAD  145 

AMOS.     They  only  look  at  me, 
And  shake  their  heads; 
Though  I  was  strong  once,  wife, 
And  I  could  work, 
When  there  was  work  to  get. 
But  times  are  bad, 
And  work  is  slack; 
And  I  must  needs  sit  idle. 
While  he  was  dying  — 
While  he  was  dying  for  the  want  of  food  — 
The  hands  that  should  have  earned  his  bread  were  idle. 
I  gave  him  life, 
Yet  could  not  feed  the  life  that  I  had  given. 

JOAN.     Ay,  Amos,  you  were  always  steady, 
And  ever  worked  well; 
And  I,  too,  have  worked; 
And  yet  we've  not  a  penny  in  the  world, 
And  scarce  a  bite  to  eat. 
Reach  down  the  loaf 
And  cut  yourself  a  slice; 
You've  eaten  naught  all  day. 

AMOS.     And  you,  wife? 

JOAN.     Nay,  I  cannot  eat  just  now. 
He  drank  the  milk, 
But  could  not  touch  the  bread; 
He  was  too  ill  to  eat. 

AMOS.     And  when  he  cried  to  me  for  bread, 
I  had  no  bread  to  give  him. 
Wife,  how  should  I  eat  bread 
When  I'd  no  bread  to  give  him  till  too  late? 

[They  sit  for  a  while  silent  on  an  upturned  empty 
orange-box  by  the  window. ,] 

JOAN.     Your  cough  is  worse  to-day. 
You've  eaten  naught, 
And  sit  so  still, 
Save  when  the  coughing  takes  you. 

AMOS.     Wife,  I  was  thinking. 

JOAN.     Thinking! 
Nay,  lad,  don't  think; 
It  is  not  good  to  think, 
At  times  like  these. 
I  dare  not  — 


DAILY  BREAD 

I,  who  bore  him, 
And  gave  him  suck. 

AMOS.     Wife,  I  was  thinking  of  a  little  child. 

JOAN.     Of  him? 

AMOS.     Nay,  not  of  him, 
But  of  a  happy  child, 

Who  played  and  paddled  daylong  in  the  brook 
That  ran  before  his  father's  cottage. 
And,  as  I  thought, 

I  seemed  to  hear  the  pleasant  noise  of  waters  — 
The  noise  that  once  was  in  my  ears  all  day, 
Though  then  I  never  heard  it, 
Or,  hearing,  did  not  heed. 
Yes,  I  was  thinking  of  a  happy  child  — 
A  happy  child  .  .  . 
And  yet,  of  him  ; 
For,  as  I  listened  to  the  sound, 
It  seemed  to  me  the  baby  that  we  loved 
No  longer  lay  upon  that  heap  of  rags, 
Lifeless  and  cold, 
But,  somewhere,  far  away, 
Beyond  this  cruel  city, 
Among  the  northern  hills, 
Played  happily  the  livelong  day, 
Paddling  and  splashing  in  the  brook  that  runs 
Before  a  cottage  door. 

O  wife,  do  you  not  hear  the  noise  of  water  — 
Of  water,  running  in  and  out, 
And  in  and  out  among  the  stones, 
And  tumbling  over  boulders? 
He  does  not  hear  it, 
For  he's  far  too  happy. 

O  wife,  do  you  not  hear  the  noise  of  water  — 
Of  water,  running,  running  .  .  . 

[T.  he  room  slowly  darkens  as  they  sit,  hand  in  hand, 
gazing  at  the  sky  beyond  the  chimney-stacks.] 


THE  NIGHT-SHIFT 

Persons: 

JENNY  CRASTER,  Robert  Craster's  wife. 
TAMAR  CRASTER,  Robert  Craster's  mother. 
MAGGIE  THOMSON,  a  neighbour. 
LIZZIE  THOMSON,  her  daughter. 

Scene:  ROBERT  CRASTER'S  cottage,  in  the  early  morning.  JENNY 
CRASTER  lies  in  bed,  her  newborn  baby  by  her  side.  Her  eyes 
are  closed,  and  she  seems  barely  conscious.  XAMAR  CRASTER 
stands  at  the  door  talking  with  MAGGIE  THOMSON. 

TAMAR.     My  son ! 
But,  hush ! 
She  must  not  hear  ; 
'Twould  be  the  death  of  her. 
Twill  take  her  all  her  time,  poor  lass, 
To  pull  through  as  it  is. 
And,  if  she  heard,  her  husband  .  .  . 
But  it's  not  true  .  .  . 
Oh,  say  it  is  not  true ! 

MAGGIE.     Ay,  Tamar,  it  is  true  enough  ; 
And  there's  but  little  hope 
That  any  man  will  leave  the  pit  alive. 

TAMAR.     My  son ! 
She  must  not  hear  a  whisper ; 
The  news  would  kill  her,  and  her  newborn  babe. 

MAGGIE.     Sooner  or  later, 
She  must  know,  poor  soul ! 

TAMAR.     Ay,  but  not  yet ; 
For  she's  in  need  of  sleep. 
When  there's  no  help, 
And  she  must  know, 
Then  'twill  be  time  enough 
To  break  the  news  to  her. 
Perhaps,  when  she  has  slept  a  bit, 
She  will  be  strong  to  bear  much 
That's  now  beyond  her  strength. 
147 


i48  DAILY  BREAD 

MAGGIE.     Well,  I'm  away! 
My  man  has  gone  already 
To  see  if  there's  a  chance  of  doing  aught. 
Thank  God,  he's  on  the  day-shift ! 
If  he'd  been  in  the  pit  ... 
But  he  was  sleeping  soundly, 
Beside  me,  snug  in  bed, 
Until  the  rumbling  roused  us; 
When  he  leapt  up  and  ran 
Nigh  naked  to  the  pit. 
I  had  to  stay  and  hush  the  children 
To  sleep  again; 
The  noise  had  startled  them. 
And  then  I  came  to  tell  you. 
There's  scarce  a  body  left 
In  all  the  village. 
The  cottages  were  empty, 
And  every  door  ajar, 
As  I  came  by; 
For  all  the  women-folk 
Have  run  to  the  pit-head. 
And  I  must  go; 
I  cannot  stay  behind, 
Not  knowing  what  is  happening. 
If  there  is  any  news, 
I'll  bring  you  word; 
Although  it's  feared 
There's  little  hope  of  rescue. 

[She  goes  out,  closing  the  door  behind  her.] 

TAMAR.     Robert,  my  son! 
But  I  must  breathe  no  word, 
Lest  she  should  hear. 
She  must  not  know  my  son's  in  peril ; 
For  he's  her  husband. 

The  women-folk  are  gathered  round  the  shaft  — 
Poor  wives  and  mothers, 
Waiting  and  watching, 
And  hoping  against  hope. 
Would  that  I,  too,  watched  with  them  — 
A  mother  'mid  the  mothers  — 
To  share  with  them  what  little  hope  there  may  be. 
But  I  must  bide  at  home, 


DAILY  BREAD  149 

Alone  with  her  I  dare  not  speak  to, 

Or  breathe  a  word  of  all  my  fears  to. 

Nay,  I  must  keep  them  to  myself, 

Even  though  my  heart  .  .  . 

My  son's  in  danger, 

Yet  I  dare  not  go  ... 

No  longer  he  belongs  to  me  alone; 

For  he's  her  husband  and  a  father  now: 

And  I  must  stay 

To  tend  his  wife  and  son. 

JENNY  [opening  her  eyes  and  speaking  in  a  whisper]. 
Is  Robert  not  home  yet  ? 

TAMAR.     Nay,  daughter  .  .  . 
He's  not  home  yet. 

JENNY.     What  time  is  it  ? 

TAMAR.     It's  nearly  .  .  . 
Nay  .  .. . 

[She  goes  to   the  clock   on  the  wall  and  holds  the 
pendulum  until  it  stops.] 

The  clock  has  stopt. 

JENNY.     I  thought  I  heard  it  ticking; 
Though  now  I  cannot  hear  it. 
Still,  it  seems  almost  light ; 
And  he  should  not  be  long. 
How  pleased  he'll  be  to  have  a  boy! 
I  hope  that  they'll  not  tell  him, 
Before  he  reaches  home. 
I'd  like  to  see  his  face, 
When  first  he  learns 
That  he's  the  father  of  a  son. 
He'll  soon  be  home  ...  be  home  .  .  . 
My  babe! 
He'll  be  so  pleased. 
I  hope  .  .  . 
That  they'll  not  tell  him  .  .  . 

TAMAR.     Nay  .  .  .  they'll  not  tell. 
But  you  must  not  talk  now, 
For  you're  too  weakly, 
And  should  save  yourself. 
Until  .  .  . 

JENNY.     Until  he  comes. 
Yes,  I'll  lie  very  quiet, 


i5o  DAILY  BREAD 

And  save  myself  that  I  may  see  him, 
When  he  first  learns  .  .  . 
But  there's  a  sound  of  tapping  .  .  . 
Do  you  not  hear  it? 

TAMAR.     Nay,  lass,  I  hear  nothing. 

JENNY.     I  thought  it  was  the  clock. 

TAMAR.     The  clock  has  stopt. 

JENNY.     It  must  be  in  my  head  then. 
It  keeps  on  tapping  .  .  .  tapping  .  .  . 
He'll  soon  be  home. 
But  I'm  so  tired, 
And  cannot  keep  awake. 
I'll  sleep  ... 
Till  he  comes  home. 

And,  Tamar,  you'll  be  sure  to  waken  me 
The  moment  he  comes  home  ? 
You'll  not  forget? 

TAMAR.     Nay,  lass,  I'll  not  forget. 

JENNY    [drowsily  sinking  back   into   unconsciousness]. 

It  keeps  on  tapping  .  .  .  tapping  .  .  . 
Tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 

TAMAR.     Till  he  comes  home  .  .  . 
Ah,  God,  how  shall  I  tell  her! 
For  I  must  tell  her  soon ; 
I  cannot  keep  it  from  her  long. 
And  I,  his  mother, 
Must  be  the  first  to  tell  his  wife 
That  he  ... 
But  he  may  come  yet  ... 
And  she  must  know  naught  now. 

For  she's  too  weakly,  '• 

And  'twould  kill  her  outright; 
And,  after  all, 
He  may  come  home  again, 
Before  there's  any  need  to  tell  her  aught. 
When  there's  no  help, 
And  she  must  know, 
Then  'twill  be  soon  enough  .  .  . 
She'll  have  a  longer  spell  than  I 
To  bear  it  ... 
She  is  young! 

And  I  ...  I  seem  quite  old, 
So  suddenly ! 
She  said  she  heard  a  sound  of  tapping  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  151 

She  might  have  heard  my  heart  almost, 

It  beat  so  loudly  at  my  side 

While  she  was  speaking  of  my  son, 

Her  husband, 

And  wondering,  poor  soul  .  .  . 

But,  may  he  not  come  safe  home  after  all? 

She  may  speak  truly,  when  she  says 

He'll  soon  be  home. 

And  yet  ... 

She  heard  a  sound  of  tapping  .  .  . 

While  I  heard  nothing  — 

Nothing  save  my  heart, 

My  old  heart  dinning  in  my  ears. 

JENNY  [sitting  up  suddenly  in  bed  and  gazing  into  va- 
cancy].    Hark! 
There  it  is  again  .  .  . 
A  sound  of  tapping  .  .  . 
I  hear  it  tapping,  tapping  .  .  . 
Like  a  pick  .  .  . 
Tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 

TAMAR.     A  pick  .  .  . 
Ah,  God! 

Nay,  daughter ;  there  is  nothing. 
You  must  lie  quiet  now, 
Or  you  .  .  . 

JENNY.     Tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 
It  goes  on  tapping,  tapping, 
In  the  dark  .  .  . 
It's  dark  ...  so  dark ; 
And  I  can  scarcely  breathe, 
The  darkness  lies  so  heavily  upon  me, 
As  though  I  wandered  somewhere  underground, 
With  all  the  earth  above  me, 
With  great  rocks  hanging  overhead, 
So  close  that  my  hair  brushes  them, 
Although  I  cannot  see  them ; 
And  I  can  touch  them  with  my  hand  .  .  . 
Oh,  they  are  falling,  falling  .  .  . 
I've  pulled  them  down  on  me  ... 
The  great  black  rocks  .  .  . 

[She  sinks  back  exhausted.] 
TAMAR.     Nay,  lass,  you're  lying  in  your  bed, 


152  DAILY  BREAD 

Your  own  warm  bed, 
Beside  your  little  son. 

JENNY  [drowsily].     My  little  son! 
When  he  comes  home 
He'll  be  so  pleased  .  .  . 
But  still  I  hear  a  sound 
Of  tapping  .  .  . 
Tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 

[She  dozes  over.] 
TAMAR.     My  son ! 
Nay,  there's  no  hope, 
For  she  hears  something  .  .  . 
Something  that  I  cannot. 
The  wife's  heart  hears 
What  the  old  mother's  may  not, 
Because  it  beats  too  loudly. 

[She  sits  for  a  while  gazing  into  the  fire.] 

JENNY  [sitting  up  again  suddenly].     Will  no  one  stop 

that  tapping? 
I  cannot  sleep  for  it. 

I  think  that  some  one  is  shut  in  somewhere, 
And  trying  to  get  out. 
Will  no  one  let  them  out, 
And  stop  the  tapping? 
It  keeps  on  tapping,  tapping  .  .  . 
Tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 
And  I  can  scarcely  breathe, 
The  darkness  is  so  thick. 
It  stifles  me, 

And  weighs  so  heavily  upon  me, 
And  drips,  and  drips  .  .  . 
My  hair  is  wet  already ; 
There's  water  all  about  my  knees. 
I  cannot  see  it, 
But  I  feel  it  creeping, 
Higher  and  higher, 
Cold  as  death,  about  me : 
I  cannot  see  it, 
But  I  hear  it  swishing 
At  every  step, 
And  feel  it  dripping  cold  — 


DAILY  BREAD  153 

The  darkness  dripping  down  upon  me, 

So  cold,  so  cold. 

And  yet  ...  I  cannot  breathe  .  .  . 

The  darkness  is  so  thick,  so  hot: 

It's  like  a  furnace-blast 

Upon  my  brow; 

And  weighs  so  heavily, 

As  though  great  rocks  were  hanging  overhead ! 

And  dripping,  dripping  .  .  . 

I  cannot  lift  my  feet, 

The  water  holds  them, 

It's  creeping  .  .  .  creeping  .  .  . 

My  wet  hair  drags  me  down. 

Ah,  God! 

Will  no  one  stop  that  tapping  ... 

I  cannot  sleep  .  .  . 

And  I  would  sleep 

Till  he  comes  home  .  .  . 

Tap  ...  tap  ...  tap  ...  tap  ... 

[Sinks  back  exhausted.] 

TAMAR.     O  God,  have  mercy  on  her  .  .  .  and  on  me! 
She  hears, 
And  yet, 

She  knows  not  what  she  hears. 
But  I, 

Though  I  hear  nothing, 
I  know  all. 
Robert,  my  son ! 

JENNY  [starting  up  again}.     I  cannot  breathe 
The  darkness  is  so  thick  — 
So  thick  and  hot, 
It  stifles  me  .  .  . 
Ah,  God!    Ah,  God! 
The  darkness  is  ablaze. 
The  rocks  are  falling,  falling  .  .  . 
The  great,  black,  dripping  rocks  .  .  . 
And  I  am  falling  .  .  . 

[A  pause. ~\ 

And  there's  some  one  tapping, 
As  though  they  would  be  in. 
Why  don't  you  let  him  in? 
It  is  my  husband ; 


154  DAILY  BREAD 

He  would  see  his  son  — 

His  firstborn  son. 

Can  you  not  hear  a  tapping,  tapping? 

It's  like  the  tapping  of  a  pick  .  .  . 

Tap  .  .  .  tap  .  .  . 

But  it  grows  fainter : 

Now  I  cannot  hear  it. 

The  darkness  has  come  down  on  me. 

I  sink  ...  I  sink  .  .  . 

[She  lies  back  exhausted.] 

TAMAR.     She  does  not  hear  it  now. 
And  now  ...  it  almost  seems 
As  if  ...  my  heart  had  stopt  .  .  . 
I  cannot  breathe  .  .  . 
But  she  is  sleeping  soundly, 
And  sleep  will  give  her  strength. 
She's  scarcely  slept, 
Since  he  was  born  — 
The  poor  wee  babe !  — 
And  he  is  sleeping  too. 
I  would  that  I  were  in  as  deep  a  slumber, 
For  I  am  weary  .  .  . 
Yet,  how  could  I  sleep  ? 
They  sleep, 

Because  they  do  not  know, 
But  I  ...  I  know. 
Robert,  my  son ! 

[She  sits  gazing  into  the  fire.     After  a  while  JENNY 
wakens  and  looks  about  her.~\ 

JENNY.     My  little  son, 
Your  father'll  soon  be  home. 
He'll  be  so  pleased  .  .  . 
But  he  should  be  home  now, 
For  it  is  light. 
Has  Robert  not  come  home  yet? 

TAMAR.     Not  ...  yet  ... 

JENNY.     What  time  .  .  . 

TAMAR.     The  clock  has  stopt. 

JENNY.     I  wonder  what  can  keep  him. 
It  is  light  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  155 

TAMAR.     Nay,  woman,  it's  not  light  yet. 
It's  dark  .  .  .  quite  dark  .  .  . 
You're  weakly  still; 
And  you've  been  wandering ; 
And  now  you're  talking  foolishness. 
You  must  not  speak; 
But  go  to  sleep  again, 
And  waken  well  and  strong. 

JENNY.     It  seems  quite  light  .  .  . 

TAMAR.     Nay  ...  it  is  dark  .  .  .  God  knows ! 

JENNY  [drowsily].     I  think  that  I  could  sleep  again -r- 
Sleep  .  .  .  till  he  comes. 

[She  sinks  into  a  deeper  slumber.  TAMAR  sits  for 
a  while,  gazing  into  the  fire  with  vacant  eyes. 
Suddenly  she  speaks,  her  voice  little  more  than 
a  whisper,  and  tries  to  rise,  but  falls  forward 
on  to  the  hearthrug,  and  lies  motionless.] 

TAMAR.     It's  dark  .  .  .  quite  dark  .  .  . 
Robert  .  .  .  my  son! 

[Time  passes;  presently  a  sound  of  voices  is  heard 
without;  the  door  opens  quietly,  and  MAGGIE 
THOMSON  enters,  followed  by  her  daughter, 
LIZZIE.] 

MAGGIE.     Tamar  .  .  .  where  are  you? 
Quick,  lass,  .  .  .  she's  fallen ! 
She  must  have  fainted  .  .  . 
The  shock  .  .  . 

[They  turn  TAMAR'S  face  to  the  light  and  loosen 
her  bodice.] 

OGod! 

She  does  not  breathe ; 
Her  heart  has  failed  her. 
And  I  — 

I  left  her  here  alone  .  .  . 
His  mother  .  .  . 

LIZZIE.     The  clock  has  stopt. 

MAGGIE.     Look  to  the  wife  .  .  . 
She  may  .  .  . 


156  DAILY  BREAD 

LIZZIE.     She's  sleeping  quietly. 

MAGGIE.     Poor  Jennie ! 
And  her  babe  is  fatherless. 

LIZZIE.     He's  snuggled  to  her  breast, 
And  sleeping  soundly. 
A  fine  big  boy  he  is. 


AGATHA  STEEL 

Persons: 

ZILLAH  PAXTON. 

AGATHA  STEEL,  her  daughter. 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements.  It  is  evening;  and  ZlLLAH  PAX- 
TON,  an  elderly  woman,  sits  by  the  fire,  with  folded  hands; 
when  the  door  opens  and  AGATHA  STEEL  enters. 

ZILLAH.     You,  Agatha! 
You  startled  me  ... 
I  heard  the  staircase  creaking; 
But  little  dreamt  'twas  your  foot. 
I  never  thought  to  look  on  you  again. 
Since  you  and  Jim  went  off,  so  suddenly, 
Without  a  word,  and  only  newly  wedded, 
It  seemed  I'd  heard  the  last  of  you. 
You  went  without  a  word  to  me  — 
Without  a  word  to  me,  your  mother ! 
And  you've  not  written  me  a  line  — 
A  single  line  in  all  these  years  — 
Three  years,  at  least: 
And  I,  for  all  you  cared, 
I  might  have  been  both  dead  and  buried. 
And  you  say  nothing  now! 
Have  you  no  tongue  at  all? 
I'm  glad  to  see  your  face,  although  it  looks  .  .  . 
But  you  —  you  must  be  ailing,  daughter, 
To  look  like  that ! 

Have  you  come  back  to  me,  because  you're  ailing, 
Come  back  to  me  ... 
Speak,  woman! 

AGATHA.     Nay  ...  I'm  well  enough. 

ZILLAH.     Well?     Nay,  you're  ailing,  Agatha. 
A  mother's  eye  is  quick  .  .  . 
But,  where  is  Jim  ? 
Is  he  not  with  you,  lass? 
157 


158  DAILY  BREAD 

AGATHA.     I  don't  know  where  he  is. 

ZILLAH.     You  don't  know  where! 
He  has  not  left  you,  daughter  ? 

AGATHA.     He's  left  me  for  another  woman. 

ZILLAH.    A  curse  .  .  . 

AGATHA.   .  Nay!  you've  no  right  to  curse  him. 

ZILLAH.  Right!  I've  no  right  to  curse  the  man 
Who  leaves  my  daughter,  his  own  wedded  wife  .  .  . 
Have  I,  your  mother  ... 

AGATHA.     You've  no  right: 
For  you,  my  mother,  let  me  wed  him. 

ZILLAH.     I  let  you !     Why,  what  else  was  there  to  do? 
The  thing  was  past  my  mending, 
Before  I  even  heard  of  it. 

AGATHA.     You  know  that  is  not  true. 
I  married  him  for  your  sake: 
You  drove  me  to  it, 
Though  you  knew  I  loathed  him. 

ZILLAH.     For  my  sake !     I  —  I  drove  you ! 
So  I'm  to  bear  the  blame  of  your  ill-doing, 
Because  I  tried  to  do  the  best  for  you, 
And  save  you  from  the  gutter! 

AGATHA.     The  best  for  me  ...  the  best ! 
To  make  me  wed  the  man  I  hated ! 

ZILLAH.     You  did  not  always  hate  him. 

AGATHA.     True  .  .  .  yet,  I  think, 
I  never  really  loved  him. 

ZILLAH.     More  shame  to  you ! 

AGATHA.     Perhaps,  and  still, 
Even  I  would  not  have  married  him. 
But  you  —  you  knew  him, 
And  you  let  me  wed  him, 
Though  I  was  your  own  daughter,  just  a  child. 
Yea,  I  was  young,  God  knows ! 
But  he  ... 

He  always  had  a  way  with  him : 
And  I  was  in  his  arms,  before  I  knew. 
And  then  .  .  . 
I  loathed  him,  loathed  him! 
And  you  .  .  .  you  knew  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  . 

ZILLAH.     What  else  was  left  ? 
Would  you  have  had  .  .  . 

AGATHA.     Ay!  anything  but  this. 
But  you  .  .  .  you  cannot  understand. 


DAILY  BREAD  159 

You  have  not  changed,  while  I  ... 

ZILLAH.     Changed,  Agatha? 

AGATHA.     And  yet,  how  should  you  change? 
You've  not  gone  through  what  I  have. 
Still,  it  is  strange  to  think  three  years 
Should  make  no  difference,  when,  to  me  ... 
But  you  .  .  .  you  speak,  as  you  spoke  then  — 
Then,  when  you  scolded  me,  and  said, 
The  Beals  had  always  been  respectable: 
And  so,  I  married  him: 
And  I  have  been  respectable : 
And  clung  unto  the  man  who  hated  me, 
Until  he  shook  me  off. 

ZILLAH.     But  you're  his  wife  .  .  . 

AGATHA.     Oh,  mother,  will  you  never  understand ! 
Yes,  I'm  his  wife,  his  wedded  wife: 
And  I've  been  faithful  to  him, 
Been  faithful  to  the  husband  that  I  hated, 
Though  he  was  ever  faithless. 
Yes,  mother,  I,  your  daughter, 
Have  been  respectable. 
I've  not  disgraced  you,  mother. 

ZILLAH.     Ah,  lass,  you're  bitter; 
But,  it's  little  wonder, 
Since  you're  forsaken. 
Jim  was  always  wild  .  .  . 

AGATHA.    Wild! 

ZILLAH.     From  a  boy  ... 
And  still,  I  never  thought  .  .  . 
A  curse  .  .  . 

AGATHA.     Nay!  bless  him,  rather, 
That  he,  at  least,  has  left  me. 

ZILLAH.     Ay !  maybe,  you're  well  rid  of  him, 
If  he's  been  cruel  .  .  . 

AGATHA.     Cruel,  woman! 

You  know  that  he  was  drunk  the  night  we  married. 
He's  scarce  been  sober,  since. 
And,  when  a  man's  in  drink  .  .  . 
But,  that's  past  now : 
We'll  talk  no  more  about  it. 
A  blow  is  neither  here  nor  there, 
If  only  you're  respectable ! 

ZILLAH.     But,  how've  you  lived  these  years? 

AGATHA.     God  knows! 


160  DAILY  BREAD 

He  never  did  a  stroke  of  work ; 
But,  lived  upon  the  little  I  could  earn. 
We've  travelled  all  the  countryside : 
For,  when  I'd  worked  my  fingers  to  the  bone, 
To  get  a  home  together, 
He'd  always  break  it  up; 
And  drag  me  out  again, 
k    To  trail  behind  him  to  another  town. 

ZILLAH.     You've  had  no  children,  daughter? 

AGATHA.     Children  ...  ah,  God! 

ZILLAH.     Dead,  Agatha! 
Perhaps,  it's  well  .  .  . 

AGATHA.     It's  well  that  I  should  bear  three  stillborn 
babies ! 

ZILLAH.     Stillborn!     Ah,  daughter! 

AGATHA.     If  only  one  had  lived  .  .  . 
But  he  ...  he  killed  them  .  .  . 
Ay!  I'm  bitter. 

ZILLAH.     You've  cause  enough:  he's  used  you  cruelly. 
Three  stillborn  babes! 

AGATHA.     Mother,  you  understand! 

ZILLAH.    Ay,  Agatha! 
My  first  was  stillborn  .  .  . 

AGATHA.     I  never  knew. 

ZILLAH.     And  yet,  your  father,  lass, 
Was  always  good  to  me; 
Ay!  he  was  ever  kind  .  .  . 
But,  Jim  has  used  you  cruelly. 

AGATHA  [rising].     Well  .  .  .  now,  it's  over! 
And  I  have  some  hope  .  .  . 
But,  I  must  not  stay  talking  here. 
It's  time  .  .  . 

ZILLAH.    You  would  not  go  again? 
Where  can  you  go? 
You'll  live  here,  surely,  now? 

AGATHA.     Nay !  anywhere  but  here. 
He'll  likely  weary  of  his  mistress  — 
Poor  soul,  I  pity  her! 
And  seek  again  his  wife  to  keep  him. 
He'd  come  here,  first  .  .  . 
What  startles  you  ? 

ZILLAH.     I  thought  I  heard  a  step. 

AGATHA.     Oh!  I've  no  fear  he'll  come  yet; 
She's  young,  and  strong  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  161 

ZILLAH.     I  did  not  think  'twas  Jim, 
But  Richard. 

AGATHA.     Richard?    Who? 

ZILLAH.     Yes,  Agatha,  you've  given  me  no  chance 
To  tell  you  that  I'd  wed  again. 

AGATHA.    You  .  .  .  married! 

ZILLAH.     Ay,  a  year  ago, 
To  Richard  Paxton. 

AGATHA.     Mother!  not  to  him! 

ZILLAH.     Why  not  ... 

AGATHA.     You've  married  him  .  .  . 
And,  yet,  you  knew  that  he  was  never  steady ! 

ZILLAH.     Well,  life's  a  lonely  thing  without  a  man: 
And  you  had  left  me,  daughter: 
You  left,  without  a  word:  and  never  wrote: 
You  didn't  care,  though  I  was  dead,  and  buried. 
Why  should  you  mind  .  .  . 
And  there's  small  blame  to  them 
Who  drink  too  much,  at  whiles. 
There's  little  else  the  poor  can  get  too  much  of: 
And  life,  at  best,  is  dull  enough,  God  knows. 
Sometimes,  it's  better  to  forget  .  .  . 
And  .  .  .  it's  a  lovely  dizziness. 

AGATHA.     You!     Mother! 

ZILLAH.     Ay!  you'll  blame  me. 
But,  Richard  is  not  always  kind  .  .  . 

AGATHA.     Nay,  mother,  I  don't  blame  you : 
It's  better  to  forget. 
Forgive  me  if  I  spoke  too  harshly : 
I  am  not  bitter,  now. 
But  I  must  go. 

ZILLAH.     Where  will  you  go  ? 

AGATHA.     I  cannot  tell  —  but,  far  away  from  here  .  .  . 
That  I,  too,  may  forget  .  .  . 
Yes;  even  I! 
Since  I  am  free; 
And  there  is  hope  within  me 
That  I  may  bear  a  living  child. 


MATES 

Persons: 

MARTIN  AYNSLEY,  a  pitman. 
CHARLOTTE  AYNSLEY,  his  mother. 
GRACE  HARDY,  his  betrothed. 

Scene:     CHARLOTTE  AYNSLEY'S  cottage.     CHARLOTTE  AYNSLEY 
and  GRACE  HARDY  stand  by  fire,  talking  together. 

CHARLOTTE.     Nay,  lass!     I  cannot  turn  him; 
He  pays  no  heed  to  me: 
He'll  have  his  will,  for  all  that  I  can  say. 
He's  just  his  father  over. 

GRACE.     But,  have  you  said  .  .  . 

CHARLOTTE.     Said!     Have  I  not  said  all  to  him 
A  mother's  heart  can  say  — 
A  heart  left  mateless, 
And  with  one  son  left  .  .  . 
How  could  I  leave  a  single  word  unspoken, 
To  save  the  only  son  that's  left  me  — 
To  save  him  from  the  death 
That  overtook  his  father  and  his  brothers, 
That  night  .  .  . 
When  I  ... 
I  slumbered  soundly; 
And  never  dreamt  of  danger, 
While  they,  my  husband  and  my  sons  .  .  . 
And  Martin  — 

Though  'twas  only  by  a  hair's  breadth 
That  he  himself  escaped, 
And  came  to  me  again  — 
Yet,  he'll  not  leave  the  pit, 
For  all  my  pleading. 
Perhaps  if  you  .  .  . 

GRACE.     Nay!  but  I've  talked,  and  talked,  with  him; 
And  he  would  answer  nothing. 
I  could  not  win  a  word  from  him. 
162 


DAILY  BREAD  163 

Will  you  not  try  again? 

CHARLOTTE.     Try,  daughter,  try! 
What  is  there  left  to  try? 
How  could  I  leave  a  stone  unturned! 
Do  I  not  lie  awake  the  livelong  night, 
To  think  of  ways  and  means 
To  keep  him  from  the  pit  ? 
I've  scarcely  slept  a  wink  since  .  .   . 
Since  that  night  — 
That  night  I  slept  so  soundly  .  .  . 

[Pause.] 

It  seems  as  though  he  could  not  break  with  it  — 

The  pit  that  all  his  folk  have  worked  in. 

It's  said,  his  father's  grandfather 

Was  born  at  the  pit-bottom  — 

Ay,  daughter!  born  and  died  there: 

For,  two  days  after  he  was  married, 

They  found  him,  crushed  beneath  a  rock, 

Dead,  in  the  very  shaft  — 

The  very  shaft  in  which  his  mother  bore  him: 

For  womenfolk  worked  in  the  pits  in  those  days, 

Young  girls,  and  mothers  near  their  time, 

And  little  children,  naked  .  .  . 

GRACE.     But  is  there  nothing  else  that  Martin 
Would  care  to  try  his  hand  at? 

CHARLOTTE.     Have  I  not  offered,  lass, 
To  set  him  up  in  any  trade  he  fancies? 
This  very  morn,  when  he  came  in, 
I  said  I'd'  buy  a  horse  and  cart, 
With  stock-in-trade  for  him  to  hawk: 
For  hawking's  scarce  a  job 
That  needs  a  man  brought  up  to  it. 
At  least,  I  thought  that  he  ... 

GRACE.     What  did  he  say? 

CHARLOTTE.     He  only  laughed  at  first; 
But,  when  I  pressed  him,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
You  know  the  way  he  has  with  him, 
And  looked  me  straight  betwixt  the  eyes  — 
Looked  at  me  with  his  father's  eyes  — 
And  then  he  said: 
"  Nay,  mother!  I'm  a  pitman; 
And  I  must  take  my  chance  among  my  mates." 
He's  just  his  father  over  .  .  . 


1 64.  DAILY  BREAD 

GRACE.     That  was  all? 

CHARLOTTE.     All,  daughter!     Was  it  not  enough? 
There's  nothing  more  to  say. 
He  will  not  leave  the  pit, 
Although  his  father,  and  his  brothers  .  .  . 
And  he,  himself  .  .  . 
I  never  shall  sleep  soundly  any  more  — 
Though  sound  I  slept  that  night, 
While  they  were  dying  ...  I  ... 

GRACE.     I'll  speak  with  him  again. 
Perhaps  .  .  . 

CHARLOTTE.     Ay,  lass ;  he'll  listen  to  you, 
If  he'll  pay  heed  to  any  one. 

GRACE.     Oh,  Charlotte,  do  you  think  that  I  ... 
When  you,  his  mother  .  .  . 
Do  you  think  he  cares  .  .  . 
He  cares  so  much  for  me? 
If  I  could  only  turn  him ! 
And  yet,  if  he'll  not  heed  .  .  . 

CHARLOTTE.     It  seems,  I've  lost  my  hold: 
He's  broken  from  my  apron-strings, 
It's  your  turn  now; 

And  you  must  try  your  strength  with  him. 
He's  stubborn ;  but  he's  fond  of  you ; 
And  when  his  heart  is  set  on  anything, 
He's  just  his  father  over. 
When  Stephen  first  walked  out  with  me, 
His  mother  bade  .  .  . 
But  Martin's  stirring; 
I  must  get  his  bait. 

Ay!  even  while  we  talk  of  him,  he's  dressing 
To  go  upon  the  night-shift. 
Talk!    Talk! 

GRACE.     Yet,  I  must  try  to  save  him. 
If  I  could  only  turn  .  .  . 

CHARLOTTE.     Pray  God,  you  may! 
There's  still  a  chance; 
Though  I  ... 
It's  your  turn  now. 
I'm  only  Martin's  mother; 
But,  you  .  .  . 

When  Stephen  wooed  me,  I  was  more  to  him  .  .  . 
And  you'll  be  more  to  Martin  .  .  . 
How  he  whistles! 


DAILY  BREAD  165 

His  heart,  at  least,  is  light  enough. 

And,  in  a  moment  he'll  be  out. 

I'll  leave  you  here  to  wait  for  him, 

And  speak  with  him,  alone ; 

And  if  he  asks  for  me, 

Say  that  I'm  seeking  coals  — 

Coals !  seeking  coals ! 

God  knows  their  cost  .  .  . 

Sometimes  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  fire, 

And  think  of  all  the  burning  lives  .  .  . 

He'll  soon  be  out. 

His  bait  is  on  the  table ; 

Though  I'll  be  back  before  he  leaves. 

GRACE.     Nay,  do  not  go. 
What  can  I  say  to  him ! 

CHARLOTTE.     Your  heart  will  tell  you,  if  you  love  .  .  . 
But,  here  he  comes. 

[She  picks   up   the  scuttle  and  shovel  and  goes  out. 
MARTIN  AYNSLEY  enters  from  the  inner  room.] 

MARTIN.     Mother,  this  button  .  .  . 
You  here,  lass ! 

I  thought  I  heard  my  mother's  voice, 
But  did  not  know  who  talked  with  her. 
Has  she  gone  out? 
I  wanted  .  .  . 

GRACE.     Come,  lad,  I'll  sew  the  button  on. 

MARTIN.     You,  Grace! 
Well,  you've  got  nimble  fingers. 
But,  mother,  lass  .  .  . 

GRACE.     She'll  not  be  long. 
Come  nearer  to  the  window: 
Nay,  but  you  must  stand  quietly, 
Or  you'll  be  pricked,  in  no  time. 

MARTIN.     Nay,  then,  I'd  best  be  quiet, 
For  I  shall  often  want  you  .  .  . 
I  play  the  deuce  with  buttons. 
You're  not  afraid,  lass,  when  you  think  of  all  ... 

GRACE.     Nay,  I'll  not  mind  the  buttons; 
They'll  be  the  least  .  .  . 

MARTIN.     The  least? 

GRACE.     If  wives  had  naught  to  do  for  men, 
But  sew  on  buttons, 


166  DAILY  BREAD 

They  would  thank  their  stars. 
But,  maybe,  some  one  else  than  I 
Will  sew  yours  on  for  you. 

MARTIN.     Why,  Grace,  who  else? 

GRACE.     Who  knows! 
The  chance  is,  you'll  go  buttonless, 
For  any  stitch  that  I  ... 

MARTIN.     What  ails  you,  lass? 
You  would  not  have  your  husband  .  .  . 

GRACE.     My  husband!     Nay;  I'll  tend  my  husband: 
'Twas  you  that  I  was  speaking  of. 

MARTIN.     Well:  I  don't  understand  you: 
But  if  you  keep  your  husband's  buttons  on, 
Then  I'll  go  snug  and  decent. 

GRACE.     Lad,  don't  you  be  too  sure. 

MARTIN.     Too  sure!     Why,  Grace! 
But  you,  you  cannot  help  yourself. 
I've  set  my  heart  upon  you: 
And  mother  says  I'm  stubborn. 

GRACE.     And  if  I'm  stubborn,  too? 

MARTIN.     You,  Grace!     But  you  don't  know  me! 

GRACE.     And,  are  you  sure  you've  naught  to  learn  of  me? 

MARTIN.     I'm  sure  you're  mine,  beyond  all  help. 
You're  true  to  me  ... 

GRACE.     God  knows,  I'm  true  .  .  . 
But  still  .  .  .  it's  not  too  late  .  .  . 

MARTIN.     Come,  woman!  no  more  foolishness, 
You're  stitched  to  me  as  firmly  as  this  button 
That  you've  sewn  on  so  strongly. 

GRACE.     As  firmly!  yes:  I  sewed  it  on: 
But  I  can  snip  it  off  with  much  less  labour. 

MARTIN.     Not  if  I  hold  the  scissors! 

[Snatches  them  up.] 

Nay!  you  may  tug,  and  tug: 

Your  work  will  stand  it  easily : 

'Twill  not  give  way,  though  you  should  tug  my  shirt  off. 

Your  work's  too  good :  and  you  are  mine,  as  surely  .  .  . 

But,  lass,  enough  of  this. 

If  I  had  only  known  that  you  were  here, 

I  would  .  .  .  yet,  you  and  she  — 

You  seemed  to  have  enough  to  talk  of, 

Without  me  ... 


DAILY  BREAD  167 

GRACE.     Ay !  we'd  much  to  talk  of. 

MARTIN.     When  only  half  awake,  I  heard  you  at  it; 
And  lay,  and  wondered  what  'twas  all  about. 
You  womenfolk  must  always  chatter,  chatter : 
You've  got  such  restless  tongues. 

GRACE.     And  yet,  it  is  the  men  that  keep  them  wagging. 

MARTIN.     The  men? 

GRACE.     Foolhardy,  heedless  men, 
That  don't  care  how  they  break  the  women's  peace. 

MARTIN.     Ah,  now,  I  understand!     There's  more  than 

buttons ! 

I've  little  need  to  ask  what  kept  you  talking. 
You've  put  your  heads  together:  but,  it's  useless. 
I  cannot  leave  the  pit,  though  you  should  talk  till  doomsday : 
So  let  no  more  be  said. 

GRACE.     For  my  sake,  Martin! 

MARTIN.     Your  sake,  Grace? 

There's  little  I'd  not  do  for  you,  you  know,  lass,  but  not  this. 
You  would  not  have  me  cowardly,  for  your  sake  ? 
How  should  I  face  my  mates,  if  I  forsook  them? 
You  would  not  have  me  spend  my  days, 
A  cur,  with  tail  betwixt  his  legs, 
And  slinking  round  the  nearest  corner, 
Whenever  my  old  mates  went  by 
To  take  their  usual  shift? 
Nay ;  I  will  hold  my  head  up, 
A  man,  among  the  men, 
For  your  sake  —  ay !  for  your  sake ! 

GRACE.     And  who  would  dare  to  call  you  coward  — 
Who,  knowing  all  you've  been  through  ? 

MARTIN.     There's    one    who    knows    what    I've    been 

through, 
Who'd  call  me  coward. 

GRACE.    Who,  lad? 

MARTIN.     Can  you  ask? 
One,  Martin  Aynsley. 

GRACE.     Ay  ...  and  yet  ... 
If  you  care  naught  for  me, 
Think  of  your  mother,  Martin. 
You  know  she's  lost  her  husband, 
And  all  her  sons  but  you; 
And  cannot  rest,  while  you  are  in  the  pit. 

MARTIN.     You  know  I  care  for  you ;  and  think  of  her ; 
And  yet,  I'm  sure  of  one  thing, 


i68  DAILY  BREAD 

Though  you  may  little  think  it  now, 

If  I  forsook  the  pit, 

The  time  would  surely  come 

When  you  would  both  despise  me  in  your  hearts. 

GRACE.     Nay,  Martin! 

MARTIN.     Grace,  I  know: 
It's  sure  as  death. 
I  cannot  leave  the  pit. 
My  father  died, 
And  I  will  die,  a  pitman. 
You  wouldn't  have  me  throw  up  work 
That  I  was  born  and  bred  to : 
You  surely  wouldn't  have  me 
Throw  over  all  my  mates  — 
The  lads  I  went  to  school  with, 
That  I've  grown  up  with, 
Played  and  worked  with, 
And  had  such  larks  .  .  . 
There's  not  too  many  of  them  left  now  .  .  . 
But  all  there  are  went  through  that  night  with  me. 
Before  that  night, 
Perhaps,  I  might  have  left  them  ; 
But  now,  how  could  I ! 
Nay,  I'll  take  my  chance. 

GRACE.     Then  some  one  else  must  sew  .  .  . 

MARTIN.     Hark ! 

GRACE.     What  d'you  hear? 

MARTIN.     I  thought  I  heard  him  whistling. 

GRACE.     Who,  lad? 

MARTIN.     I  thought  'twas  Nicholas,  my  mate: 
But  that  was  not  his  whistle. 
He  always  whistles  for  me, 
Every  night  at  Jackson's  Corner; 
And  we  go  to  work  together. 

GRACE.     Ay !  he'd  whistle  you  to  death  .  .  . 
And  you  .  .  .  you'd  follow  .  .  . 

MARTIN.     Shame  upon  you,  lass ! 
How  can  you  talk  like  that ! 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
That,  but  for  him,  I'd  be  a  dead  man  now. 
'Twas  he  alone  who  dragged  me  — 
Who  dragged  me  from  the  death 
That  overtook  my  father  and  my  brothers. 
Grace,  he  did  not  forsake  me: 


DAILY  BREAD  169 

Shall  I  desert  him  now? 

He  sought  me,  at  the  first  alarm, 

And  we  two  fled  together, 

Before  the  creeping  choke-damp, 

Until  it  gained  upon  us, 

And  I  was  overcome, 

And  dropped,  to  die: 

When  Nicholas  picked  me  up, 

And  bore  me  in  his  arms, 

Along  the  stifling  galleries  — 

Stumbling  over  dead  and  dying 

Every  step  he  staggered. 

Though  he  could  scarcely  struggle 

Against  the  damp  himself, 

He  bore  me  into  safety; 

And  kept  the  spark  of  life  in  me, 

Till  we  at  last  were  rescued. 

GRACE.     And  yet,  you'd  go  through  that  again? 

MARTIN.     If  need  be,  lass,  with  Nicholas. 

GRACE.     You  love  him  more  than  me. 

MARTIN.     Nay,  Grace!  you  know  .  .  . 

GRACE.     Yet  you'll  not  even  leave  the  pit  for  my  sake, 
While  you  would  go  to  death  for  his.  « 

MARTIN.     I'd  go  to  death  for  him ; 
But  I'd  not  be  a  coward 
For  your  sake,  even,  Grace. 

GRACE.     Then  you  must  choose  between  us. 

MARTIN.     Grace ! 

GRACE.     Ay!  you  must  choose,  and  now! 
I  cannot  lead  your  mother's  life, 
Or  my  own  mother's,  either. 
You  know  that  in  the  dead  of  night 
My  father  and  my  brothers 
Were  lost  with  yours  .  .  .  and  I  ... 
Who  saw  them  brought  in,  one  by  one, 
And  laid  upon  their  beds, 
With  faces  covered  .  .  . 
How  could  I  ever  rest  at  all, 
With  that  remembrance  in  my  heart, 
While  you  were  in  the  pit  — 
With  dread  for  ever  on  me, 
That  you,  too,  would  be  brought, 
And  laid,  a  broken  bundle,  at  my  feet, 
Or  never  come  at  all  to  me  again? 


1 70  DAILY  BREAD 

How  could  I  live, 

With  ears  for  ever  listening  for  the  rumble 

Of  fresh  disaster? 

With  eyes  for  ever  wide  with  dread  to  see 

The  flames  leap  up  the  shaft  ? 

How  could  I  sleep  ...  [A  shrill  whistling  is  heard.] 

He  whistles  you  —  your  mate ! 

And  who  am  I  to  keep  you  ? 

Forsake  me  now  for  him  .  .  . 

And  I  ...  and  I  ... 

MARTIN.     Grace ! 

GRACE.     Nay,  Martin !  you  must  choose  .  .  . 
He  whistles  louder  .  .  . 
He's  impatient  .  .  . 
Hark! 
Now  you  must  choose  between  us. 

MARTIN.     The  choice  is  made,  lass ; 
I  choose  him  —  and  you ! 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms,  snatches  a  kiss,  and  goes  out.] 

GRACE  [gazing  after  him].     The  choice  is  made  .  .  . 
He  knows  I  cannot  break  with  him. 
And  I  must  sew  .  .  .   [calling  after  him]. 
You've  gone  without  your  bait! 
Martin ! 

[She  picks  up  the  basket  and  can,  and  runs  out  after 
him.} 


THE  OPERATION 

Persons: 

WILLIAM  LOWRY,  a  printer. 
HESTER  LOWRY,  his  wife, 
LETTY  LOWRY,  their  daughter. 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements,  late  at  night.  WILLIAM  LOWRY 
sits  with-  his  coat  off,  in  an  armchair,  smoking,  and  reading  a 
newspaper.  The  door  opens,  and  HESTER  LOWRY  enters. 
Over  her  arm  is  a  basket,  laden  with  purchases,  which  she 
lays  on  the  table  with  a  sigh. 

WILLIAM.     You're  late  to-night. 
You  should  have  let  me  come  with  you: 
That  basket's  heavy,  wife. 

HESTER.     'Twas  not  the  basket,  William: 
I  was  kept. 

WILLIAM.     What  kept  you,  wife? 
The  shops  would  not  be  thronged,  to-night. 

HESTER.     I  finished  with  the  shops,  three  hours  ago. 
I  had  to  wait  my  turn. 

WILLIAM.     Your  turn? 
Who  kept  you  waiting? 

HESTER.     The  doctors,  husband. 

WILLIAM.     Doctors,  wife? 

HESTER.     I  thought  'twas  time  to  have  the  thing  away; 
And  so  I  went  to  see. 
The  doctors  shook  their  heads; 
And  said,  next  week,  it  might  have  been  too  late  .  .  . 

WILLIAM.     Too  late?    What  ails  you,  wife?     I  never 
knew  .  .  . 

HESTER.     They  say  it's  cancer. 
They  were  very  kind; 
And  wanted  me  to  stay,  to-night, 
And  have  it  done,  at  once. 
They'd  hardly  let  me  leave. 
I  said,  I  must  come  home  to  see  you  first. 
171 


172  DAILY  BREAD 

They'll  take  me  in  to-morrow. 

WILLIAM.     To-morrow,     wife!     And     I  ...  I     never 

knew. 
You  must  have  guessed,  before  you  went  .  .  . 

HESTER.     Yes,  lad;  I  knew:  and  'twas  no  shock  to  me; 
I've  known  so  long. 

WILLIAM.     So  long!  .  .  .  and  never  told  me! 
But,  lass,  the  pain  .  .  . 

HESTER.     Ay;  it  was  bad  to  bear. 
At  first  I  scarce  could  keep  from  crying  out ; 
But,  as  the  years  went  by  ... 

WILLIAM.     The  years!     You've  had  the  pain  for  years? 

HESTER.     Ay,  off  and  on. 
It's  full  eleven  years,  since  first  I  felt  it. 

WILLIAM.     And,  from  the  first,  you  knew  .  .  . 

HESTER.     I  knew. 
My  father  died  of  it. 

WILLIAM.     Eleven  years!     And  never  breathed  a  word, 
Nor  murmured  once,  but  patiently  .  .  . 

HESTER.     I  come  of  fisher  folk,  who  live  on  patience. 
It's  little  use  for  any  man 
To  be  impatient  with  the  sea. 

WILLIAM.     And  I  ...  I  never  guessed. 
I've  seen  you,  day  by  day, 
And  slept,  each  night,  beside  you  in  the  bed ; 
And  yet,  you  never  breathed  a  word  .  .  . 

HESTER.     Nay,  lad;  I've  kept  the  thing  from  you: 
'Twould  not  have  eased  the  pain  to  share  it. 
You  slept  the  sounder,  knowing  nothing; 
Though,  there  were  times  the  gnawing  was  so  bad, 
I  could  have  torn  .  .  . 

WILLIAM.     And  I  slept  on  unknowing! 
You  never  even  wakened  me. 
And  every  little  ache  I've  had, 
I've  made  a  pretty  song  about  it! 

HESTER.     You've  made  a  song! 
And  what  about  the  time  your  arm  was  caught  .  .  . 
Was  caught  in  the  machine,  and  you  were  hanging  .  .  . 
Were  hanging  by  the  flesh,  a  mortal  hour! 

WILLIAM.     Nay;  Michael  held  me  up  upon  his  back. 

HESTER.     But,  all  that  time  your  arm  was  in  the  wheels; 
And  you  .  .  .  you  never  murmured,  once,  they  say; 
But,  only  laughed,  and  jested ; 
Although  they  had  to  take  a  chisel, 


DAILY  BREAD  173 

And  cut  each  cog  out  separately, 

Before  the  flesh  was  freed. 

How  you  could  bear  the  strain  and  jar, 

And  never  once  lose  heart, 

I  cannot  think ;  and  your  poor  arm  .  .  . 

Your  poor,  poor  arm,  with  all  the  sinews  torn  .  .  . 

WILLIAM.     I've  never  really  played  the  fiddle  since: 
I've  got  tc  make  the  notes,  that  used  to  come. 
But  you,  wife,  all  these  years  .  .  . 
And  I  slept  on  ... 

HESTER.     'Twould  not  have  eased  .  .  . 

WILLIAM.     But,  if  I'd  known, 
You  should  have  had  the  doctor  at  the  first. 

HESTER.     I  knew  you  could  not  spare  me  then: 
Those  were  not  easy  times ! 
You,  laid  off  idle  through  your  accident, 
And  Letty,  but  a  baby: 
And  we  had  both  enough  to  do, 
To  keep  the  home  together. 
I  hoped,  at  least,  to  keep  things  going; 
Till  I  should  be  past  doing  things. 
The  time  has  come  .  .  . 
But  I  ...  I've  saved  a  bit: 
And  Letty's  thirteen  past, 
And  finished  schooling, 
And  old  enough  to  manage  for  you. 
Is  she  in  bed  ? 

WILLIAM.  She  went  an  hour  ago. 
She  wanted  sorely  to  wait  up  for  you ; 
But  she  was  sleepy,  so  I  wouldn't  let  her. 

HESTER.     Ay,  she's  been  at  it  all  day  long; 
And  she's  a  handy  lass, 
And  will  do  well  enough  for  you, 
Until  .  .  .  until  .  .  . 

WILLIAM.     Does  Letty  know? 

HESTER.     Nay,  she  knows  nothing,  William; 
And  I'll  not  tell  her  now  till  morning. 
I  would  not  spoil  her  sleep. 
Poor  child,  she  little  dreams! 
But  she's  a  plucky  girl, 
And  I  have  taught  her  everything: 
And  she  can  cook,  and  scrub,  and  wash, 
As  well  as  any  woman. 
You'll  scarcely  miss  me  ... 


174  DAILY  BREAD 

WILLIAM.    Wife! 

HESTER.     I've  seen  to  all  your  clothes, 
And  there  are  shirts  and  stockings 
To  last  for  many  weeks, 
To  last  until  .  .  . 
I  mayn't  be  long  away. 

WILLIAM.     O,  wife,  it's  terrible  ...  I  cannot  think  .  .  . 
It  seems  so  strange  that  all  these  years  .  .  . 

HESTER.     You  never  saw  my  father: 
He  suffered  long,  poor  fellow, 
But  never  rightly  knew  that  it  was  cancer, 
Till  very  nigh  the  end. 
It  laid  him  low  at  last, 
When  he  was  far  from  home, 
After  the  herring  in  the  Western  seas. 
The  doctor  said  he  must  return  by  train, 
But  he'd  not  leave  his  boat; 
And  so  his  mates  set  sail, 
(The  season  just  begun, 

And  catches  heavier  than  they'd  been  for  years) 
And  brought  him  home. 
And,  when  the  Ella  neared  the  harbour, 
He  left  his  bunk,  and  took  the  tiller, 
And  brought  her  in  himself. 

Though,  in  his  heart,  he  knew  it  was  the  last  time, 
Yet  he'd  a  smile  for  us; 
And  when  the  boat  was  berthed, 
He  looked  my  mother  bravely  in  the  eyes, 
And  clasped  her  hand,  and  they  went  home  together. 
He  never  rose  again: 
The  doctors  could  do  nothing: 
But  he  was  brave  and  gay  until  the  end ; 
And  always  smiled,  and  said  it  did  not  hurt, 
Although  his  teeth  were  clenched, 
And  his  strong  fingers  clutched  the  bedclothes  tightly. 

WILLIAM.     And  you're  his  daughter,  wife! 

HESTER.     But  I've  cried  out  before  I'm  hurt  too  sorely. 
Next  week,  the  doctors  said,  it  might  have  been  .  .  . 
It's  taken  in  the  nick  of  time, 
And  I  will  soon  be  well  again. 
Folk  go  through  such,  and  worse,  each  day: 
It's  naught  to  make  a  fuss  about. 
I've  only  one  more  night  to  bear  the  pain  .  .  . 
And  then  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  175 

WILLIAM.     Ay,  wife,  you'll  soon  be  well  again, 
With  such  a  heart  in  you. 
And  yet,  if  you  had  gone  too  long  .  .  . 
You  should  have  told  me  at  the  first, 
And  let  us  fend  .  .  . 

HESTER.     My  father  brought  his  boat  in. 

[The  inner  door  opens,  and  LETTY  stands  in  the  door- 
way, in  her  night-dress.] 

\LETTY.     Is  mother  not  home  yet? 
Oh,  there  you  are ! 
You  stayed  so  long  to-night, 
I've  been  asleep  and  dreaming! 
Oh,  such  a  dreadful  dream ! 
I  dreamt  that  you  .  .  . 
But  you  are  safe  and  sound ! 
You  are  not  ailing,  mother? 

HESTER.     Lass,  I'm  as  well  as  I  have  been  for  years. 
But  you'll  catch  cold : 
You'd  better  get  to  bed  again. 

LETTY.     But,  I  shall  dream. 

HESTER.     Nay,  you'll  sleep  sound,  to-night. 

[LETTY  kisses  her  father  and  mother  good-night  and 
goes  back  to  the  bedroom.] 


THE  CALL 

Persons: 

SETH  HERDMAN,  a  fireman. 
MARY  HERDMAN,  his  mother. 
CHRISTOPHER  BELL,  a  fireman.  * 

Scene :  The  engine-house  of  a  fire-station.  The  men  are  gathered 
in  knots,  talking  in  subdued  voices,  scarcely  audible  above  the 
racket  of  the  street.  SETH  HERDMAN  paces  backwards  and 
forwards,  impetuously,  by  himself,  when  CHRISTOPHER  BELL 
approaches  him,  holding  out  his  hand. 

CHRISTOPHER.    The  best  of  luck ! 

SETH.     I  fear  there's  little  hope. 

CHRISTOPHER.     Nay,    keep    your    heart    up.     You    can 

never  tell. 

When  my  first  lass  was  born,  my  wife  had  long  been  ailing : 
There  seemed  to  be  no  chance  for  her: 
And  now,  though  she's  the  mother 
Of  six  brave,  sonsy  lasses, 
She's  heartier  than  she's  been  in  all  her  life. 

SETH.     The  doctor  says  .  .  . 

CHRISTOPHER.     But  even  doctors  don't  know  everything. 
Your  wife  was  always  plucky, 
And  she'll  surprise  them  yet. 
You  must  be  plucky,  too. 

Your  mother  tends  her  —  and  you  know  your  mother ! 
And  only  think,  if  all  goes  well  upstairs, 
How  proud  you'll  be! 
For  I'm  a  father,  and  I  know. 
There's  not  a  prouder  man  in  all  the  world. 

SETH.     If  all  goes  well  .  .  . 

CHRISTOPHER.     You'll  be  the  happiest  man  .  .  . 
There'll  be  no  doing  with  you ! 

SETH.     If  I  but  knew! 

CHRISTOPHER.     The  waiting's  a  sore  trial. 
But  think,  what  luck  we're  not  called  out  to-night! 
176 


DAILY  BREAD  177 

It  would  be  hard  to  go  ... 

SETH.     It's  harder  still  to  stand  here,  doing  nothing, 
While  she  ...  I'd  bear  it  better, 
If  only  I'd  a  job  to  tackle  — 
A  job  that  left  no  time  for  thinking. 
I'd  rather  be  upon  a  blazing  roof, 
Than  standing  idle,  with  such  thoughts  at  work, 
While  she  ... 

CHRISTOPHER.     Ay,  lad,  I  understand. 
Uncertainty's  the  devil. 
But  dwell  upon  the  lucky  chance, 
And  maybe,  'twill  be  yours: 
And  then  you'll  be  the  happiest  of  men. 
You  cannot  think  the  difference  children  make: 
No  house  is  home,  unless  there's  children  in  it. 
My  girls  are  always  in  my  mind : 
And  yet,  whenever  I  go  in, 
It's  fresh  delight  to  see  them, 
And  take  them  in  my  arms. 
They're  more  to  me  than  I  can  tell  you ; 
I'm  always  dull  at  saying 
The  thing  that's  in  my  heart: 
But  they  have  brought  so  much  to  me, 
And  just  made  all  the  difference  to  my  life  — 
Ay,  to  my  life  and  work  — 
For  now  I've  them  to  work  for. 
Though  I  was  never  slack,  they  hearten  me; 
And  when  I  hear  the  cry 
That  there  are  children  in  a  burning  house, 
I  always  think  of  them, 
And  see  their  faces  in  the  flames, 
Their  arms  stretched  out  to  me; 
And  hear  their  little  voices  calling,  "  Daddy!  " 
Then  naught  could  hold  me  back. 

SETH.     Ay,  you  were  always  reckless. 

CHRISTOPHER.     Not   reckless,   lad.     No  father  dare  be 

reckless. 

Upon  the  toppling  walls, 
Amid  the  flames  and  smoke, 
I  always  know  they're  'waiting  me  at  home, 
That  I  must  win  through  all  to  them. 
And  when  at  last,  perhaps  at  dawn, 
I'm  free  to  cross  my  threshold, 
Drenched,  stifled,  scorched  and  scalded, 


178  DAILY  BREAD 

To  see  them  lying  quietly, 

In  dreamless  slumber,  clean  and  sweet! 

SETH.     If  but  the  bell  would  sound, 
And  call  us  out  to  tackle 
The  biggest  blaze  .  .  . 

CHRISTOPHER.     Nay,  lad,  you  don't  know  what  you're 

saying. 

That  thought's  not  worthy  of  you : 
For  you're  no  coward  in  the  face  of  danger. 
The  waiting's  hard  to  bear; 
But  she  bears  more  than  you. 

SETH.     It's  her  I  think  of ; 
She  bears  all  ...  while  I  ... 
I  can  do  nothing  .  .  .  nothing! 
The  doctor  said  ...  Ah,  God! 
If  she  should  not  win  through! 

CHRISTOPHER.     Lad,  at  the  worst,  I  know  that  you'll  be 

brave. 
But,  see,  your  mother  .  .  .  Courage! 

[MARY  HERDMAN  enters  hurriedly,  and  goes  up  to 
SETH,  and  takes  him  in  her  arms,  without  speak- 
ing.] 

SETH.     Mother! 

MARY.     My  son ! 

SETH.     Is  there  no  hope? 

MARY.     The  babe's  alive. 

SETH.     And  she  ...  and  she  ... 

[The  fire  alarm  sounds,  and  all  the  men  spring  to  the 
engine. ~\ 

Thank  God,  there's  work! 
Come,  lads. 


THE  WOUND 

Persons: 

HETTY  DROVER,  Phillip  Drover's  wife. 
SUSAN  WELCH,  her  mother. 
JOHN  RIDDLE,  a  ship's  riveter.  ' 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements.  HETTY  DROVER  stands  near  the 
window,  gazing  out  with  unseeing  eyes.  She  has  a  wound  on 
her  brow,  and  another  on  her  hand;  but  seems  oblivious  of 
them.  f  A  footstep  on  the  stairs  arouses  her;  and  she  hastily 
pulls  her  hair  over  her  brow,  hides  her  hand  beneath  her 
apron;  and  moves  towards  the  cradle  in  which  her  baby  is 
sleeping.  The  door  opens;  and  SUSAN  WELCH  enters. 

HETTY.    You,  mother ! 

SUSAN.     I've  just  come  .  .  . 
Why,  daughter,  what's  amiss? 
You  look  so  pale  .  .  . 
And,  oh !  your  brow  is  bleeding  — 
A  dreadful  wound  .  .  . 
Nay !  do  not  touch  it,  woman. 
Your  hand  bleeds,  too! 

HETTY.     It's  nothing. 

SUSAN.    Nothing! 

A  wound  like  that  —  you  call  it  nothing! 
But,  I  must  bind  it  up,  instead  of  talking. 
Words  won't  heal  wounds, 
Though  often  they're  the  cause  of  them. 

[She  takes  some  old  linen  from  a  drawer;  fills  a  basin 
with  water,  and  washes,  and  binds  the  wound  while 
she  is  talking.] 

Ah,  what  a  gash !  your  poor,  poor  brow ! 
How  you  could  come  by  such  a  wound, 
I  cannot  think  .  .  . 
HETTY.     I  fell. 

179 


i8o  DAILY  BREAD 

SUSAN.     You  fell? .  How  did  you  come  to  fall? 

HETTY.     I  hardly  know. 

SUSAN.     You  hardly  know  ? 

HETTY.     I  think  I  must  have  slipt;  and  struck  the  fender; 
And  clutched  the  bars,  in  falling: 
My  hand  is  burnt, 
Although  I  did  not  feel  it  then. 

SUSAN.     You  think  you  slipt !     And  then  you  call  it  noth- 
ing— 

A  wound  like  that,  clean  to  the  bone ! 
But,  maybe,  you  are  dazed  a  bit; 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  ... 
When  did  it  happen,  daughter? 

HETTY.     Long  ago  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     It  cannot  be  so  long;  the  wound  still  bleeds. 

HETTY.     Long  .  .  .  long  ago  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying! 
An  hour  ago,  perhaps. 

SUSAN.     An  hour  ago?     Then  Phillip  had  not  gone ? 

HETTY.     Nay  .  .  .  he'd  not  gone  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     How  comes  it  that  he  left  you,  lass, 
In  such  a  state  as  this? 

HETTY.     Oh,  but  I'm  dazed! 
And  don't  know  what  I'm  saying. 
He'd  left,  long,  long  before. 

SUSAN.     What  set  him  off  so  early? 
He  hasn't  far  to  go. 
The  Yard  would  scarce  be  open. 

HETTY.     I  don't  know  why  he  went. 
Perhaps,  he  thought  he'd  take  a  turn  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     On  such  a  morning,  daughter! 

HETTY.     Why  not?    A  drop  or  two  of  rain 
Is  neither  here  nor  there  with  menfolk. 
'Twould  take  a  pretty  splash,  I  fancy, 
To  keep  my  man  indoors. 
But,  I  know  nothing  where  he  went. 
I  only  know  he'd  gone  .  .  .  long,  long  before  .  .  . 
Why,  woman,  can  you  think  he'd  go  — 
He'd  go,  and  leave  me  lying, 
Half-senseless,  on  the  hearth ; 

And  never  turn  .  .  .  though  I  ...  though  I  ... 
But  he  had  gone,  long,  long  before  I  tumbled. 
He  kissed  me  ...  ere  he  went; 
He  always  kisses  .  .  . 


DAILY  BREAD  181 

Ay,  and  his  babe, 

He  kissed  the  babe  and  took  it  in  his  arms«; 

For  he's  the  best  of  fathers  ; 

He  loves  his  babe  .  .  .  he's  never  harsh  with  it. 

I  thought  of  that,  while  I  lay,  listening 

For  his  return  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     For  his  return?     You  thought  he'd  come  again? 

HETTY.     I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying! 
How  could  he  come,  when  he's  been  long  at  work  ? 
And  knowing  nothing  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     Still  .  .  . 

HETTY.     You  don't  believe  me,  mother? 

SUSAN.     I  scarce  know  what  to  think. 

HETTY.     When  did  I  ever  lie  to  you, 
That  you  should  doubt  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     Nay;  you've  been  always  truthful; 
But  Phillip  .  .  . 

HETTY.     Can  you  think  he'd  go, 
And  slam  the  door  behind  him, 
And  leave  me,  lying  helpless  .  .  . 
But  you  .  .  . 

Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that; 
What  can  I  say  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     Say  nothing,  daughter. 

HETTY.     You  don't  believe  me,  mother? 

SUSAN.     I  know  that  Phillip's  hot,  at  times; 
And  you  would  screen  him. 

HETTY.     Nay !  there's  naught  to  screen. 
'Twas  I  that  .  .  .  Nay! 
And,  if  he's  hot,  at  times, 
You  know  he's  much  to  try  him; 
The  racket  that  he  works  in,  all  day  long, 
Would  wear  the  best  of  tempers. 
Why,  mother,  who  should  know  as  well  as  you 
How  soon  a  riveter  is  done? 
The  hammers  break  a  man,  before  his  time; 
And  father  was  a  shattered  man  at  forty; 
And  Phillip's  thirty-five; 
And  if  he's  failed  a  bit  ... 
And,  sometimes,  overhasty, 
Well,  I  am  hasty,  too; 
You  know  my  temper ;  no  one  knows  it  better. 

SUSAN.     But,  such  a  wound !     And  then  to  leave  .  .  . 

HETTY.     You  do  not  dare  to  look  me  in  the  eyes, 


1 82  DAILY  BREAD 

And  say  you  think  he  struck  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     There's  some  one  at  the  door;  I'll  open  it. 

[She  goes  to  .the  door,  and  throws  it  open.  JOHN  RID- 
DLE steps  in,  but  hesitates  on  the  threshold  without 
speaking.] 

SUSAN.     Why,  John,  you  here? 
Are  you  not  working,  then  ? 

JOHN.     Ay,  ...  I  am  working,  Susan. 
I've  only  left  the  Yard  .  .  .  I've  come  .  .  . 

HETTY.     Oh,  tell  me  what  has  happened ! 
Why  don't  you  speak ! 
Will  you  stand  there,  all  day,  and  never  speak  .  .  . 

JOHN.     I've  that  to  say  which  is  not  spoken  easily, 
Nor  easy  hearing  for  a  wife. 

HETTY.     Speak  out!     Speak  out! 
You  know  that  I'm  no  coward. 
Speak!     Where  is  Phillip?     Speak! 

JOHN.     They're  bringing  him  along. 

SUSAN.     Ah,  God! 

HETTY.     They're  bringing  him  .  .  .  And  I  ...  I  lay, 
and  listened  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     How  did  it  happen? 

JOHN.     How?     I  scarcely  know, 
Though  I  was  face  to  face  with  him  ; 
For  he  and  I  were  hammer-mates. 
We  sat  astride  the  beam ; 
And  I  was  chaffing  him; 
But,  he  was  dazed,  and  silent; 
And,  when  the  red-hot  rivet  was  thrust  up, 
He  never  struck  at  it; 
He  must  have  lost  his  nerve  ; 
And  so,  I  took  his  turn ; 
And  still  he  did  not  strike, 
But,  looked  at  it,  bewildered; 
And,  all  at  once,  cried  out: 
"It  bleeds!     It  bleeds!  " 

And  then,  his  fingers  slackened  on  the  hammer, 
Which  clattered  to  the  bottom  of  the  ship : 
And  then,  he  swayed, 
And  tumbled  after  it  ... 
I  tried  to  clutch  .  .  . 

SUSAN.     And  nothing  broke  his  fall  ? 


DAILY  BREAD  183 

JOHN.     We  found  him  in  a  heap. 

SUSAN.     Dead  ? 

JOHN.     At  the  point  of  death : 
He  scarcely  breathed  a  moment; 
But,  as  I  bent  down  over  him, 
I  heard  him  whisper  .  .  . 

HETTY.     Spare  me  what  he  said ! 
I  dare  not  hear  it  ... 

JOHN.     I'd  not  hurt  .  .  . 

HETTY.     Nay!     Nay!  speak  out. 
I  am  no  coward  ...  I  ... 
Tell  all,  tell  all. 

JOHN.  There  is  not  much  to  tell. 
He  whispered:  "  Lass,  forgive  me." 
Then,  he  died. 

HETTY.     Forgive  you,  lad ! 
There's  nothing  to  forgive. 

'Twas  I  who  angered  you ;  my  foolish  tongue  .  .  . 
It's  I  who  need  .  .  . 
But,  I  ...  I'm  dazed; 
And  don't  know  what  I'm  saying  .  .  . 
Nay !     Nay !  you  did  not  hear  aright ! 
He  needed  no  forgiveness. 
Why  should  he  beg  forgiveness, 

Of  me,  his  wife  .  .  .  and  he,  the  best  of  husbands  .  .  . 
And  I  ...  I  lay,  and  listened  for  his  footstep  .  .  . 
If  he'd  but  turned! 
There's  nothing  to  forgive  .  .  .  - 
'Twas  I  ...  and  now, 
Where  shall  I  seek  forgiveness! 

SUSAN.     I  hear  steps  coming  up  the  court. 

JOHN    [starting   forward,   and  catching    HETTY,   as   she 
swoons].     Nay,  steady,  lass! 

HETTY.     He's  coming  back. 


SUMMER-DAWN 

Persons: 

LABAN  CARPENTER,  a  hind. 
BETTY  CARPENTER,  his  wife. 

Scene:  LABAN  CARPENTER'S  cottage,  before  dawn.  LABAN  still 
lies  in  bed,  dozing ;  but  his  wife  is  already  dressed ;  and  is  set- 
ting the  kettle  on  a  newly-lit  fire.  In  the  bed,  beside  LABAN, 
is  a.  six-months  old  baby ;  and,  in  another  bed,  are  five  children, 
all  under  the  age  of  seven;  the  boys  sleeping  at  one  end,  the 
girls,  at  the  other. 

BETTY.     Come,  lad,  get  up,  or  we'll  be  late. 

LABAN.     So  soon,  lass!     What  o'clock  is  it? 

BETTY.     It's  getting  on  for  three. 
The  fire  is  kindling  famously: 
I'll  have  the  kettle  boiling  in  a  twinkling. 
We'll  have  a  sup  of  tea,  before  we  start, 
To  keep  the  bitter  chill  out. 
It's  raw  work,  turning  out  these  dewy  mornings. 

LABAN.     It  seems  but  half-an-hour  ago, 
Since  I  lay  down  in  bed. 

BETTY.     Nay,  Laban,  it  was  half-past  ten, 
At  most,  when  you  turned  in. 
You'd  scarcely  got  your  trousers  off, 
Before  you  dropt  asleep ; 
And,  you  were  snoring,  like  a  pig, 
Until  I  turned  you  off  your  back. 
'Twas  nigh  eleven,  when  I  got  to  bed. 

LABAN.     I  can't  tell  how  you  manage. 
A  man  must  have  his  sleep  out, 
If  he's  to  do  his  day's  work: 
But,  women,  somehow,  seem  .  .  . 

BETTY.     Come,  lad,  don't  lie  there,  talking: 
But,  stir  yourself  .  .  . 

LABAN.     My  back  is  nearly  broken. 

BETTY.     Ay,  some  folk's  backs  are  broken  easily. 
184 


DAILY  BREAD  185 

LABAN.     You  call  it  easily! 
It's  easy,  hoeing  turnips,  every  night, 
Until  it  is  too  dark  to  see  our  feet  ; 
And  then,  to  start  again,  at  dawn : 
And,  Summer-nights  so  short ! 

BETTY.     If  Summer-nights  were  longer, 
Your  children  would  go  shoeless  through  the  Winter. 

LABAN.     And  still,  it's  heavy  on  a  man, 
As  well  as  all  his  day's  work. 

BETTY.     Have  I  no  day's  work,  too? 
Your  day's  work  will  not  keep  you,  housed  and  fed  — 
You,  and  your  wife,  and  children. 
And  if  your  father'd  talked  like  that, 
Lad,  where  would  you  be  now? 
He  can  have  been  no  lie-abed : 
He'd  not  a  lazy  bone  in  all  his  body. 
You've  heard  him  boast,  a  hundred  times: 
"  Though  I  have  had  bad  seasons, 
I've  not  done  far  amiss: 
Since  I  have  reared  eleven  men  and  women." 
Ay!  and  your  mother,  crippled  with  rheumatics, 
For  more  than  half  her  lifetime: 
And  only  him  to  do  the  housework; 
And  see  to  all  the  lot  of  you, 
And  keep  you  decent,  single-handed, 
Until  the  girls  were  old  enough, 
As  well  as  all  his  day's  work. 
You  talk  of  day's  work! 
Why,  I've  heard  him  tell, 
How,  once,  to  save  the  corn, 
He  worked  a  week,  without  a  wink  of  sleep : 
All  day,  at  his  own  job  in  Stobshill  mine: 
And,  all  night,  helping  in  the  harvest-field. 

LABAN.     And  then,  he  slept  .  .  . 

BETTY.     He  slept  his  fill: 
But,  not  till  all  was  harvested. 
He  saved  the  corn. 

LABAN.     Ay:  somehow,  fathers  .  .  . 

BETTY.     You're  a  father,  too: 
And  should  think  shame  to  lie  and  grumble  there; 
And  only  be  too  glad  that  we  are  able 
To  earn  a  little  extra  in  the  Summer, 
To  tide  us  over  Winter. 

LABAN.     True,  wife,  true: 


186  DAILY  BREAD 

And  yet,  it's  hard  that,  in  an  honest  day's  work, 
A  strong  man  cannot  earn  enough 
To  keep  his  wife  and  family. 

BETTY.     Twelve  shillings  won't  go  far, 
With  rents  so  high, 
And  food,  and  clothes,  and  firing. 
But  I  have  naught  to  grumble  at: 
I  only  have  six  babes  to  feed: 
My  mother  had  thirteen; 
And  ten  of  us  were  born, 
After  my  father  lost  his  sight, 
While  blasting  in  the  quarry. 
And  she'd  three  babes-in-arms,  at  once  — 
The  twins,  and  Dick. 

I've  heard  her  say  that,  ere  the  boy  was  born, 
While  she  lay  sick  in  bed,  and  near  her  time, 
Her  two,  poor  helpless  babies  at  the  bed-foot, 
Sat  up,  with  big  eyes,  watching  her, 
As  good  as  gold; 
And  she,  poor  woman,  wondering, 
How  ever  she  would  nurse  the  three,  at  once. 
I  cannot  think  how  she  got  through,  at  all: 
But,  when  I  used  to  ask  her,  she  would  answer: 
"Ay!  looking  back,  you  wonder  how  you  managed; 
But,  at  the  time,  each  single  thing  you  do  for  them 
Makes  you  yourself  so  happy, 
That  you  think  nothing  of  it." 
And  mother  had  the  truth  of  things. 
And  we're  quite  rich  to  her  — 
She'd  hoe,  a  summer's  day,  for  sixpence : 
And  spent  her  life's  best  years  in  picking  stones. 
She  only  had  one  holiday, 
That  ever  I  heard  tell  of : 

And  that,  when  she'd  been  married  fourteen  years. 
She  went  to  see  her  cousin  at  the  Stell : 
And  rode  both  ways  in  Farmer  Thomson's  pig-cart; 
And,  ever  afterwards,  she  said ; 
She  couldn't  tell  why  folks  liked  holidays, 
Or  why  they  need  go  seeking  happiness, 
While  they  had  homes  to  work  in ; 
And  that,  for  her  part,  she  found  little  pleasure 
In  sitting  still  all  day, 
In  other  people's  houses,  with  cold  legs, 
And  idle,  folded  hands, 


DAILY  BREAD  187 

When  there  was  darning  to  be  done  at  home, 

And  one's  own  hearth  to  sit  by; 

Though  there  was  little  sitting  down  for  her, 

At  any  time  at  all. 

She  couldn't  rest; 

Up  first,  and  last  to  bed, 

I  never  saw  her  quiet,  till  the  end. 

She  always  hoped  that  death  would  find  her  working, 

Her  wish  was  granted  her  .  .  . 

Death  found  her  at  the  job  she  liked  the  best  .  .  . 

The   clothes   she  washed   that  week   were   left   for   me   to 

iron  .  .  . 

Ay,  mother  knew  what  hardship  was ; 
And  laboured,  day  and  night,  to  rear  her  children. 

LABAN.     It's  ever  children,  children! 
A  woman  slaves  her  very  life  away 
To  rear  her  children ; 

And  they  grow  up  and  slave  their  lives  away 
To  rear  their  children. 
We  little  thought,  lass,  when  we  married ! 
Do  you  remember  the  fine  Summer-nights, 
When  first  we  walked  together? 
Ah,  those  were  happy  times! 
We  little  thought  .  .  . 

BETTY.     You  little  thought; 
I  knew. 

Yes ;  those  were  happy  times ; 
No  girl  was  ever  happier  than  I  was, 
When  first  I  walked  with  you  in  Maiden  Meadows: 
But  I  am  happy  now,  for  all  the  difference. 
Life  was  not  over  easy,  even  then : 
They  worked  me  sorely  at  the  farm, 
Though  I  was  but  a  child. 
On  Monday  mornings,  we  were  up  at  one, 
To  get  the  washing  through, 
Before  the  day's  work  started. 
I  wasn't  fifteen  then ;  but  I  remember 
The  coastguards  whistling  to  us, 
As  they  passed  the  lighted  window, 
On  the  cold,  black  Winter-mornings. 
And  often,  I'd  been  working  many  hours, 
Before  you  turned  out  with  your  team. 
I  used  to  think  that  you  went  bravely,  Laban, 
Behind  your  dappled  horses. 


DAILY  BREAD 

LABAN.     Ay!  then  I  little  knew  — 
I  little  knew  that  life  was  labour,  labour, 
And  labour  till  the  end. 

I  thought  that  there'd  be  ease,  somewhere.     [Rises  and  be- 
gins to  dress.} 

BETTY.     If  men  will  marry,  and  have  children, 
They  must  not  look  for  ease. 
Yet,  husband,  you'd  not  be  a  boy  again, 
Unwedded  .  .  . 

LABAN.     Nay !     I  couldn't  do  without  you. 

BETTY.     But,1  you've  too  many  children? 
Too  many  hungry  mouths  to  fill, 
Too  many  little  feet  to  keep  in  leather! 
And  can  you  look  upon  them,  sleeping  there, 
(My  father  ne'er  set  eyes  on  me,  poor  fellow!) 
And  talk  like  that  ? 

And  is  it  Tommy  you  would  be  without  ? 
You've  had  him  longest;  and  perhaps  you're  tired  .  .  . 

LABAN.     Nay,  wife :  he  was  the  first ; 
And  you  were  such  a  girl  —  just  seventeen ! 
And  I,  but  two  years  older. 
Do  you  remember,  lass,  how  proud  .  .  . 

BETTY.     Or  is  it  Nell,  who  brings  your  bait  to  you? 

LABAN.     She  grows  more  like  her  mother  every  day. 

BETTY.     It  must  be  Robin,  then, 
That  all  the  neighbours  say  takes  after  you. 

LABAN.     He's  got  my  temper,  sure  enough, 
The  little  Turk! 

BETTY.     Or  Kit  and  Kate  the  twins? 
They're  surely  twice  too  much  for  you. 

LABAN.     Folk  say  that  never  such  a  pair 
Was  seen  in  all  the  countryside. 

BETTY.     There's  just  the  baby  left. 
Poor  little  mite,  so  you're  the  one  too  many! 

LABAN.     Come,  Betty,  come! 
Enough  of  teasing! 
You  know  that  I  was  only  talking; 
I'm  ready,  now,  for  work. 

BETTY.     The  kettle's  boiling.     [She  makes  the  tea,  and 

fills  two  mugs.~\ 
Drink  it  up; 
'Twill  help  to  keep  the  chill  out. 

LABAN.     Ay ;  but  it's  dank  work,  hoeing  swedes  at  dawn. 

BETTY.     The  sun  will  soon  be  up. 


DAILY  BREAD  189 

LABAN.     The  sun  gets  up  a  deal  too  soon  for  me. 

BETTY.     Nay;  never  rail  against  the  sun. 
I'd  sooner,  lad,  be  shut  away  from  you, 
Than  from  the  sunshine,  any  day. 
I'll  never  hear  a  word  against  the  sun. 

[They  take  up  their  hoes  from  behind  the  door,  give  a 
last  look  at  their  sleeping  children,  and  go  out 
together  into  the 


HOLIDAY 

Persons: 

EVA  SPARK,  a  widow. 
NELLY  SPARK.  \ , 
POLLY  SPARK,  ]her 
DANIEL  WEBB,  a  navvy. 

Scene:  A  room  in  tenements:  evening.  NELLY  SPARK  lies  un- 
conscious on  the  bed  with  her  eyes  open  and  her  hands  mov- 
ing in  a  regular  succession  of  mechanical  motions.  Her 
mother  sits  by  the  bed  sewing.  POLLY  SPARK  stands  near 
the  window  looking  out  into  the  dingy  court. 

EVA.     Her  hands  are  never  quiet. 

POLLY.     She's  tending  the  machine; 
And  slipping  in  the  brush-backs 
As  we  do  all  day  long. 
Day  after  day,  and  every  day, 
Year  in,  year  out,  year  in,  year  out, 
Save  Sunday  and  the  holiday  .  .  . 
To  think  to-day's  a  holiday  — 
And  what  a  holiday  for  her! 

EVA.     She  cannot  rest  a  moment. 
Her  hands  are  working,  working  .  .  . 
It  must  be  weary  work,  at  best ; 
But  now  .  .  . 

POLLY.     And  yet  we  do  it, 
Year  in,  year  out,  year  in,  year  out, 
Until  it  drives  us  dizzy, 
And  we,  maybe,  slip  in  a  hand  as  she  did  — 
Six  holes  it  drills  — 
And  then  they  call  it  carelessness! 

EVA.     Ay !  that  began  the  trouble  — 
Her  poor  hand! 

It  gives  me  quite  a  turn  to  think  of  it. 
She's  never  been  herself  since. 
It's  hard  she  cannot  rest. 
190 


DAILY  BREAD  191  ' 

POLLY.     To  think  to-day's  a  holiday! 
And  last  year  she  was  dancing  .  .  . 

EVA.     She's  ever  been  a  dancer, 
From  a  baby: 

Ay !  even  as  a  child-in-arms, 
I  could  not  keep  her  quiet, 
If  she  but  heard  an  organ ; 
And  though  'twas  half  a  street  away, 
'Twould  take  me  all  my  time  to  hold  her 
From  tumbling  off  my  lap. 
'Twas  in  her  blood; 
I  danced  before  I  married  — 
Though  afterwards,  God  knows, 
I'd  little  list  for  dancing  — 
And,  in  my  day, 
While  I'd  the  heart  for  it, 
I  danced  among  the  best. 
When  first  your  father  saw  me, 
I  was  dancing. 

POLLY.     Last  year,  she  danced  the  live-long  day 
She  danced  us  all  out  easily, 
Although  the  sun  was  blazing; 
And  we  were  fit  to  drop. 
She  would  have  danced  herself  to  death ; 
But,  some  one  stopped  the  music  — 
I  think  'twas  Daniel  — 
Even  he  was  done, 
Though  he's  not  beaten  easily. 

EVA.     He'd  scarcely  go  to-day. 
He  said,  he  could  not  go  without  her.  • 

I  told  him  that  'twas  worse  than  useless 
For  him  to  sit  here,  watching  her. 
I  think  he  only  went,  at  last, 
Because  he  could  not  bear  to  see  her  hands. 
It's  bad  enough  for  me  ... 
I  could  not  have  him,  too  ... 
I  cannot  help  but  watch  .  .  . 
Her  poor,  poor  hands ! 
They're  never  still  a  moment. 
All  night,  I  watched  them  working. 

POLLY.     And,  last  year,  she  was  dancing  — 
Was  dancing  in  the  sun! 
And  there  was  none  could  dance  with  her  — 
Not  one! 


192  DAILY  BREAD 

I  never  knew  where  she  could  pick  the  steps  up : 

There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  them, 

As  though  she  made  them  up  as  she  went  on. 

They  came  to  her,  I  fancy, 

As  trudging  comes  to  us. 

EVA.     Ay !  she'd  a  dancing  heart. 

POLLY.     You  scarcely  saw  her  feet  move, 
Because  they  went  so  quickly : 
It  dazzled  me  to  watch  them. 
And,  as  she  danced  so  madly, 
She  waved  a  branch  of  hawthorn 
That  Daniel  plucked  for  her. 

EVA.     That  night  when  she  came  home 
Her  arms  were  full  of  blossom. 
The  room  was  white  for  days: 
She'd  scarcely  left  a  pot  or  pan 
For  me  to  cook  a  meal  in : 
And,  yet,  I  dared  not  toss  it  out. 
The  scent  was  nigh  too  much  for  me: 
A  hawthorn  grew  beside  the  door  at  home; 
And,  in  the  drenching  rain, 
It  used  to  smell  so  fresh  and  sweet. 
'Twill  be  there  still  .  .  .  but  I  ... 
And  she  was  born  about  the  blossom-time; 
For  I  remember  how  I  lay, 
And  dreamt  that  I  could  smell  the  hawthorn, 
Though  we  had  left  the  country  then, 
And  I  was  far  from  any  blowing  thing. 
And  I  can  smell  it  now, 
Though  I've  not  seen  a  growing  thorn  for  years. 

POLLY.     The  smell  of  hawthorn,  and  the  heat, 
Together,  turned  me  faint. 
She  did  not  seem  to  mind  it; 
But,  danced,  till  I  was  dizzy  — 
Quite  dizzy,  watching  her: 
And,  when  I  called  to  stop  her, 
She  only  laughed,  and  answered: 
That  she  could  dance  for  ever  — 
For  ever  in  the  sunshine, 
Until  she  dropt  down  dead. 
Then  Daniel  stopped  the  music, 
Suddenly  .  .  . 
Her  feet  stopt  with  it : 
And,  she  nearly  tumbled : 


DAILY  BREAD  193 

But,  Daniel  caught  her  in  his  arms: 

And  she  was  dazed  and  quiet: 

And  scarcely  spoke  a  word, 

Till  we  were  home  in  bed, 

And  I  had  blown  the  light  out. 

I  did  not  take  much  notice  at  the  time : 

For  I  was  half-asleep : 

Yet,  I  remember  every  word, 

As  though  she  said  them  over,  lying  there: 

"  At  least,  I've  danced  a  day  away! 

To-morrow,  we'll  be  working  — 

To-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 

Till  we're  dead. 

And  yet,  to-day, 

The  job  was  nearly  done: 

If  they'd  not  stopt  the  music, 

I  might  have  finished,  dancing!  " 

EVA.     Her  hands  are  never  quiet: 
They're  always  working,  working  .  .  . 
They  move  so  quickly, 
I  can  scarcely  follow  .  .  . 

POLLY.     She  always  worked  like  that: 
Indeed,  the  only  wonder  is 
She'd  never  slipt  her  hand  before. 
She  worked  as  madly  as  she  danced : 
And  she  danced  madly. 

EVA.     Ay  ...  she'll  dance  no  more. 
Poor  Daniel,  I'd  no  heart  to  tell  him, 
That  there  .  .  .  that  there's  no  hope  for  her. 
He  never  asked  me  what  the  doctor  said : 
I  think  he  knew,  somehow. 
He'd  scarcely  go: 

But,  he  ...  he  could  not  bear  to  see  ... 
I  cannot  bear  to  watch  them; 
Yet,  cannot  keep  my  eyes  off: 
They're  always  working,  working  — 
Poor  broken  hands! 

And,  once,  they'd  beat  to  music,  on  my  breast, 
When  she  was  but  a  baby  in  my  lap. 
Would  God,  that  time  had  never  passed  .  .  . 

POLLY.     To  think  they'll  all  be  dancing. 
While  she  .  .  .  she's  lying  .  .  . 

EVA.     Daniel  went,  poor  lad; 
But,  he  was  loth  to  go ; 


194  DAILY  BREAD 

And  there'll  be  little  dancing, 

For  him,  to-day, 

And  many  days  to  come. 

He'll  not  stay  late : 

I  looked  for  him,  ere  now. 

POLLY.     Ay !  we  are  only  "  hands." 
And,  in  the  end  .  .  . 
I  wonder  if  I'll  lie  like  that,  one  day, 
With  useless  fingers  working  .  .  . 
God  spare  me! 

But  I  think  there's  little  chance. 
I  never  worked,  or  danced,  as  she  did. 
She  danced,  and  danced  .  .  . 

EVA.     I  smell  the  hawthorn  now,  as  strongly 
As  we  could  smell  it,  after  rain  .  .  . 

POLLY.     There's  some  one  on  the  stairs: 
I  think  it's  Dan. 

[The  door  opens,  gently ;  and  DANIEL  WEBB  enters, 
quietly,  carrying  a  branch  of  hawthorn.] 

DANIEL.     How's  Nelly,  now  ? 
I've  brought  some  bloom  for  her. 
I  thought  she  might  .  .  . 
Last  year,  she  liked  the  hawthorn : 
A  year  to-day,  she  danced  beneath  the  blossom  .  .  . 
I  could  not  stay, 
And  see  them  jigging  .  .  . 
And  yet  I  cannot  bear  to  watch  .  .  . 

EVA  [turning  suddenly].     Her  hands  have  stopt! 
She's  quiet  now  .  .  . 
Ah,  God! 
She's  getting  up! 
She'll  fall  .  .  . 

[They  all  rush  towards  NELLY,  as  she  rises  from  the 
bed;  but,  something  in  her  eyes  stays  them  half- 
way;  and  they  stand,  spell-bound,  watching  her, 
as  she  steps  to  the  floor;  and  moves  towards 
DANIEL,  stretching  out  her  hand  for  the  haw- 
thorn, which  he  gives  to  her  without  a  word. 
Holding  the  branch  over  her  head,  she  begins 
to  dance  slowly;  her  feet  gradually  moving  more 
rapidly.] 


DAILY  BREAD  195 

NELLY.     Faster  ...  .  faster  .  .  .  fast  .  .  . 
Who's  stopt  the  music? 

[She  pauses;  stands  a  moment,  dazed;  then  drops  to 
the  floor  in  a  heap.} 

EVA  [running  towards  her}.     Ah,  God! 
She's  done ! 
She  does  not  breathe  .  .  . 

[They  bend  over  her;  and  DANIEL  picks  up  the  dropt 
branch.} 

DANIEL.     It's  fallen,  now  — 
The  bloom  .  .  . 
I  thought  she  might  .  .  . 
Last  year  .  .  . 
And  now! 
I  brought  the  bloom  .  .  . 

EVA.     Her  hands  stopt  working, 
When  she  smelt  it. 
It  set  her  dancing  .  .  .  dancing  to  her  death. 

DANIEL.     Oh,  Christ! 
What  have  I  done ! 
Nelly! 
I  brought  the  bloom  .  .  . 

POLLY.     She's  had  her  wish. 

1908-9. 


WOMENKIND 

(1909) 


TO 

STEPHEN  AND 
LOUISE  WISE 


WOMENKIND 

Persons  : 

EZRA  BARRASFORD,  an  old  blind  shepherd. 
ELIZA  BARRASFORD,  his  wife. 
JIM  BARRASFORD,  their  youngest  son. 
PHCEBE  BARRASFORD,  Jim's  bride. 
JUDITH  ELLERSHAW. 

Scene:  The  living-room  at  Krindlesyke,  a  lonely  cottage  on  the 
fells.  EZRA,  blind,  feeble-minded,  and  decrepit,  sits  in  an 
armchair  near  the  open  door.  ELIZA  BARRASFORD  is  busy 
near  the  hearth. 

ELIZA  [glancing  at  the  clock].     It's  nearly  three. 
They'll  not  be  long  in  being  here. 

EZRA.     What's  that? 

ELIZA.     You're  growing  duller,  every  day. 
I  say  they'll  not  be  long  now. 

EZRA.     Who'll  not  be  long? 

ELIZA.     Jim  and  his  bride,  of  course. 

EZRA.     His  bride? 

ELIZA.     Why,  man  alive,  you  never  mean  to  tell  me 
That  you've  forgotten  Jim's  away  to  wed ! 
You're  not  so  dull  as  that. 

EZRA.     We  cannot  all  be  needles. 
I'm  dull,  at  times  .  .  . 
Since  blindness  overtook  me. 
While  yet  I  had  my  eyesight, 
No  chap  was  cuter  in  the  countryside. 
My  wits  just  failed  me,  once  .  .  . 
The  day  I  married  .  .  . 
And  Jim's  away  to  wed,  is  he? 
I  thought  he'd  gone  for  turnips. 
He  might,  at  least,  have  told  his  dad  .  .  . 
Though,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
I  do  remember  hearing  something  .  .  . 
It's  Judith  Ellershaw  that  he's  to  marry. 


202  WOMENKIND 

ELIZA.     No!     No!     You're  dull,  indeed! 
It's  Phoebe  Martin  Jim's  to  marry. 

EZRA.     Who's  Phcebe  Martin? 
I  know  naught  of  her. 

ELIZA.     And  I  know  little,  either. 
She's  only  been  here,  once  .  .  . 
And  now,  she'll  be  here,  always. 
I'll  find  it  strange,  at  first, 
To  have  another  woman  in  the  house. 
But,  I  must  needs  get  used  to  it. 
Your  mother,  doubtless,  found  it  strange 
To  have  me  here,  at  first  .  .  . 
And  it's  been  long  enough  in  'coming. 
Perhaps,  that  makes  it  harder. 
But,  since  your  mother  died, 
And  she,  poor  soul,  she  didn't  last  too  long 
After  you  brought  me  home  with  you  .  .  . 
She  didn't  live  to  see  a  grandchild  .  .  . 
I  wonder,  now,  if  she  .  .  . 
And  yet,  I  spared  her  all  I  could  .  .  . 
Ay !  that  was  it,  for  certain ! 
Poor  s*oul,  she  could  not  bear  to  see 
Another  woman  do  her  work; 
And  so,  she  pined  and  wasted. 
If  only  I  had  known ! 
Since  she  was  carried  out, 
There's  scarce  a  woman  crossed  the  threshold. 
No  other  woman's  slept  the  night 
At  Krindlesyke  for  forty  years  .  .  . 
Just  forty  years  with  none  but  menfolk! 
A  queer  life,  when  you  think  of  it. 
Well,  well,  they've  kept  me  busy,  doing  for  them. 
And  there's  few  left  now, 
Only  you  and  Jim  .  .  . 
And  now,  Jim's  bride  .  .  . 
Another  woman  comes  .  .  . 
And  I  must  share  with  her. 
I  dare  say  that  we'll  manage  well  enough: 
She  seemed  a  decent  lass, 
When  she  was  here,  that  once  .  .  . 
Though,  there  was  something  in  her  eyes 
I  couldn't  quite  make  out. 
She  hardly  seemed  Jim's  sort,  somehow. 
I  wondered  at  the  time  . 


WOMENKIND  203 

But,  who  can  ever  tell  why  women  marry? 

Still,  Jim  will  have  his  hands  full, 

Unless  she's  used  to  menfolk. 

I  never  saw  her  like  .  .  . 

She'll  take  her  own  way  through  the  world, 

Or  I  am  sore  mistaken: 

Though,  she  seemed  fond  enough  of  Jim. 

He's  handsome  ...  yet  ... 

It's  hard  to  say  why  such  a  girl  as  she  .  .  . 

EZRA.     Tut!  tut!  girls  take  their  chance. 
And  Jim  takes  after  me,  they  say. 
If  he  were  only  half  as  handsome 
As  I  was  at  his  age  .  .  . 
You  know  yourself  .  .  . 
You  did  not  need  much  coaxing. 

ELIZA.     Well  .  .  .  doubtless,  she  knows  best  .  .  . 
And  you  can  never  tell  .  .  . 

EZRA.     Where  does  she  hail  from? 

ELIZA.     Somewhere  Bentdale  way. 
Jim  met  her  at  the  Fair,  a  year  ago. 

EZRA.     I  met  you  at  the  Fair. 

ELIZA.     Ay,  fairs  have  much  to  answer  for  ... 
But,  she  is  not  my  sort. 
And  yet,  she's  taken  Jim  .  .  . 

EZRA.     I  thought  'twas  Judith  Ellershaw. 

ELIZA.     No!     No!     I'm  glad  that  it's  not  Judith. 
Jim  fancied  her,  at  one  time; 
But  Jim's  had  many  fancies. 
He  never  knew  his  mind. 

EZRA.     Ay,  Jim  is  gay,  is  gay! 
And  I  was  gay,  when  I  was  young. 
And  Jim  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     Ay:  Jim's  his  father's  son. 
'Twas  well  that  went  no  further: 
For  Judith  flitted  one  fine  night  .  .  . 
'Twas  whispered  that  her  father'd  turned  her  out. 
He's  never  spoken  of  her  since, 
Or  so  his  neighbours  say  .  .  . 
And  no  one's  heard  a  word  of  her. 
I  never  liked  the  lass  .  .  . 
She'd  big  cow-eyes  .  .  . 
There's  little  good  in  that  sort: 
And  Jim's  well  quit  of  her. 
He'll  never  hear  of  her  again. 


204  WOMENKIND 

That  sort  ... 

EZRA.     I  liked  the  wench. 

ELIZA.     Ay!  you're  Jim's  father. 
It's  well  he's  settling  down,  at  last. 
He's  wild,  like  all  the  others  .  .  . 
•     Sometimes  I've  feared  he'd  follow  them  .  .  . 
Six  sons,  and  only  one  at  home, 
And  he  the  youngest  of  the  bunch, 
To  do  his  parents  credit! 
The  others  all  ... 

But,  now  Jim's  married,  he  may  settle  down. 
If  you'd  not  married  young, 
God  knows  where  you'd  have  been  to-day. 

EZRA.     God  knows  where  you'd  have  been, 
If  we'd  not  met,  that  Fair  day! 
I'd  spent  the  last  Fair  with  another  girl  — 
A  giggling,  red-haired  wench  — 
And  we  were  pledged  to  meet  again. 
And  I  was  waiting  for  her,  when  I  saw  you. 
But,  she  was  late  .  .  . 
And  you  were  young  and  bonnie  .  .  . 
Ay,  you  were  young  and  pink  .  .  . 
There's  little  pink  about  you  now,  I'm  doubting. 

ELIZA.     Nay!  forty  years  of  Krindlesyke,  and  all  . 

EZRA.     If  she'd  turned  up  in  time,  young  Carroty, 
You'd  never  have  clapped  eyes  on  Krindlesyke: 
This  countryside  and  you  would  still  be  strangers. 

ELIZA.     If  she'd  turned  up  ... 
She'd  lived  at  Krindlesyke,  instead  of  me. 
This  forty  year  .  .  .  and  I  ...  I  might  .  .  . 
But,  what's  to  be,  will  be : 
And  we  must  take  our  luck. 

EZRA.     I'm  not  so  sure  that  she'd  have  seen  it  either: 
Though  she  was  merry,  she'd  big  rabbit-teeth 
That  might  be  ill  to  live  with  .  .  . 
Though  they'd  have  mattered  little,  now 
Since  I  am  blind  .  .  . 
And  she  was  always  merry  .  .  . 
While  you  .  .  .  but  you  were  young  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     And  foolish! 

EZRA.     Not  so  foolish  .  .  . 
For  I  was  handsome  then. 

ELIZA.     Ay :  you  were  handsome,  sure  enough : 
And  I  believed  my  eyes,  in  those  days, 


WOMENKIND  205 

And  other  people's  tongues. 

There's  something  in  a  young  girl  seems  to  fight 

Against  her  better  sense, 

And  gives  her  up,  in  spite  of  her. 

Yes,  I  was  young! 

And  just  as  foolish  then  as  you  were  handsome. 

EZRA.     Well,  fools,  or  not,  we  had  our  time  of  it : 
And  you  could  laugh  in  those  days  .  .  . 
And  did  not  giggle  like  the  red-haired  wench. 
Your  voice  was  like  a  bird's  .  .  . 
But,  you  laugh  little,  now  .  .  . 
And  Lord !  your  voice  .  .  . 
Well,  still  it's  like  a  bird's,  maybe, 
For  there  be  birds,  and  birds  — 
There's  curlew,  and  there's  corncrake. 
But  then,  'twas  soft  and  sweet. 
Do  you  remember  how,  nigh  all  day  long, 
We  sat  together  on  the  roundabout? 
I  must  have  spent  a  fortune  .  .  . 
Besides  the  sixpence  that  I  dropped  .  .  . 
For  we  rode  round  and  round, 
And  round  and  round  again : 
And  music  playing  all  the  while. 
We  sat  together  in  a  golden  carriage ; 
And  you  were  young  and  bonnie : 
And  when,  at  night,  'twas  lighted  up, 
And  all  the  gold,  aglitter, 
And  we  were  rushing  round  and  round, 
The  music  and  the  dazzle  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     Ay !  that  was  it,  the  music  and  the  dazzle  .  .  . 
The  music  and  the  dazzle,  and  the  rushing  .  .  . 
Maybe,  'twas  in  a  roundabout 
That  Jim  won  Phoebe  Martin. 

EZRA.     And  you  were  young  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     And  I  was  young. 

EZRA.     Ay,  you  were  young  and  bonnie : 
And  then,  when  you  were  dizzy  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     Yes,  I  was  dizzy  .  .  . 

EZRA.     You  snuggled  up  against  me  ... 
I  held  you  in  my  arms  .  .  . 
And  warm  against  me  ... 
And  round  we  went  .  .  . 
With  music  playing  .  .  . 
And  gold,  aglitter  .  .  . 


206  WOMENKIND 

The  music  and  the  dazzle  ,  .  , 

ELIZA.     And  there's  been  little  dazzle,  since,  or  music. 

EZRA.     Ay :  I  was  gay,  when  I  was  young, 
Gay,  till  I  brought  you  home. 

ELIZA.     You  brought  me  home? 
You  brought  me  from  my  home. 
If  I'd  but  known  before  I  crossed  the  threshold, 
If  I'd  but  known  .  .  . 
But  what's  to  be,  will  be. 
And  now,  another  bride  is  coming  home, 
Is  coming  home  to  Krindlesyke  .  .  . 
God  help  the  lass,  if  she  .  .  . 
But  they  will  soon  be  here. 
Their  train  was  due  at  Mallerford  at  three. 
The  walk  should  take  them  scarce  an  hour, 
Though  they  be  bride  and  bridegroom. 

EZRA.     I  wish  that  Jim  had  married  Judith. 
I  liked  the  lass. 

ELIZA.     You  liked  .  .  . 
But,  come,  I'll  shift  your  chair  outside, 
Where  you  can  feel  the  sunshine ; 
And  listen  to  the  curlew; 
And  be  the  first  to  welcome  Jim  and  Phrcbe. 

EZRA.     Wife,  are  the  curlews  calling? 

ELIZA.     Ay:  they've  been  calling  all  day  long, 
As  they  were  calling  on  the  day, 
The  day  I  came  to  Krindlesyke. 

EZRA.     I've  never  caught  a  note. 
I'm  getting  old, 
And  deaf,  as  well  as  blind. 
I  used  to  like  to  hear  the  curlew, 
At  mating-time,  when  I  was  young  and  gay. 
And  they  were  whistling  all  about  me 
That  night,  when  I  came  home  .  .  . 
The  music  and  the  dazzle  in  my  head, 
And  you  and  all  ... 
And  yet  I  heard  them  whistling  .  .  . 
But  I  was  young  and  gay! 
And  you  were  plump  and  pink  .  .  . 
And  I  could  see  and  hear  .  .  . 
And  now! 

ELIZA.     And  now,  it's  Jim  and  Phosbe  — 
The  music  and  the  dazzle  in  their  heads  — 
And  they'll  be  here  in  no  time. 


WOMENKIND  207 

EZRA.     I  wish  he'd  married  Judith. 

[EZRA  rises,  and  ELIZA  carries  out  his  chair,  and  he 
hobbles  after  her.  She  soon  returns,  and  begins 
to  sweep  up  the  hearth,  and  then  puts  some  cakes 
into  the  oven  to  keep  hot.  Presently,  a  step  is 
heard  on  the  threshold,  and  JUDITH  ELLER- 
SHAW  stands  in  the  doorway,  a  baby  in  her  arms. 
ELIZA  does  not  see  her,  for  a  moment,  then  looks 
up,  and  recognises  her  with  a  start.} 

ELIZA.     You,  Judith  Ellershaw ! 
I  thought  'twas  Jim  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     You  thought  'twas  Jim? 

ELIZA.     Ay;  Jim  and  .  .  .   [breaks  off]. 
Where've  you  sprung  from,  Judith? 
It's  long  since  you've  shown  face  in  these  parts. 
I  thought  we'd  seen  the  last  of  you. 
I  little  dreamt  .  .  . 
And,  least  of  all,  to-day! 

JUDITH.     To-day?    And  should  I  be  more  welcome 
On  any  other  day? 

ELIZA.     Welcome?     I  hardly  know. 
Your  sort  is  never  overwelcome 
To  decent  folk  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     I  know  that  well. 
That's  why  I've  kept  away  so  long. 

ELIZA.     You've  kept  away? 
But  you  were  little  here,  at  any  time. 
I  doubt  if  your  foot  soiled  the  doorstep 
A  dozen  times,  in  all  your  life. 
And  then,  to  come  to-day,  of  all  days  — 
When  Jim  .  .  .   [breaks  off  suddenly]. 

JUDITH.     When  Jim? 

ELIZA.     But,  don't  stand  there  .  .  . 
You're  looking  pale  and  tired  .  .  . 
It's  heavy,  walking  with  a  baby. 
Come  in,  and  rest  a  moment,  if  you're  weary. 
You  cannot  stay  here  long: 
For  I'm  expecting  .  .  .  company. 
And  you,  I  think,  will  not  be  over  eager  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     I'm  tired  enough,  God  knows! 
We'll  not  stay  long  to  shame  you ; 
And  you  can  send  us  packing, 
Before  your  company  arrives. 


208  WOMENKIND 

[She  comes  in,  and  seats  herself  near  the  door. 
ELIZA  busies  herself  in  laying  the  table  for  tea, 
and  there  is  silence  for  a  while. ~\ 

JUDITH.     And  so,  Jim's  gone  to  fetch  the  company? 
ELIZA.     Ay :  Jim  has  gone  .  .  . 

[She  breaks  off  suddenly,  and  says  no  more  for  a 
while.  Presently,  she  goes  to  the  oven,  and 
takes  out  a  piece  of  cake,  and  'butters  it,  and 
hands  it  to  JUDITH.] 

ELIZA.     Perhaps,  you're  hungry,  and  could  take  a  bit. 

JUDITH.     Ay;  but  I'm  famished  .  .  .  Cake! 
We're  grand  to-day,  indeed! 
It's  almost  like  a  wedding. 

ELIZA.     A  wedding,  woman! 
Cannot  folk  have  cake, 
But  you  must  talk  of  weddings? 
And  you  of  all  ... 

JUDITH.     I  meant  no  harm. 
I  thought,  perhaps,  that  Jim  .  .  . 
But,  doubtless,  he  was  married  long  ago? 

[Her  baby  begins  to  whimper,  and  she  tries  to  hush 
it  in  an  absent  manner.] 

Hush !  hush !  my  lass. 

You  must  not  cry, 

And  shame  the  ears  of  decent  folk. 

ELIZA.     Why,  that's  no  way  to  soothe  it ! 
Come,  give  the  child  to  me: 
I'll  show  you  how  to  handle  babies. 

JUDITH.     And  you  would  nurse  my  child ! 

ELIZA  [taking  it  in  her  arms].     A  babe's  a  babe  .  .  . 
Ay,  even  though  its  mother  .  .  . 

[She  breaks  off  suddenly,  and  stands  gazing  before 
her,  holding  the  baby  against  her  bosom.] 

JUDITH.     Why  don't  you  finish,  woman? 
You  were  saying  .  .  . 
"  Ay,  even  though  its  mother  .  .  ." 

ELIZA  [slowly,  gazing  before  her  in  a  dazed  manner]. 
Nay,  lass;  it's  ill  work,  calling  names. 


WOMENKIND  209 

Poor  babe,  poor  babe! 

It's  strange  .  .  .  but,  as  you  snuggled  to  my  breast, 

I  thought,  a  moment,  it  was  Jim 

I  held  within  my  arms  again. 

I  must  be  growing  old  and  foolish 

To  have  such  fancies  .  .  .  still  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     You  thought  that  it  was  Jim, 
This  bastard  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     Shame  upon  you,  woman, 
To  call  your  own  child  such! 
Poor  innocent  .  .  .  and  yet  ... 
OJim!     OJim! 

JUDITH.     Why  do  you  call  on  Jim? 
He  hasn't  come  yet? 
But  I  must  go,  before  .  .  .   [rising'} 
Give  me  the  child. 

ELIZA  [facing  her,  and  withholding  the  baby].     Nay! 
not  until  I  know  the  father's  name. 

JUDITH.     The  father's  name? 
What  right  have  you  to  ask  ? 

ELIZA.     I  hardly  know  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     Give  me  the  child. 
You'll  never  have  the  name  from  my  lips. 

ELIZA.     O  Jim!     O  Jim  [giving  back  the  child]. 
Go,  daughter,  go,  before  .  .  . 
Oh,  why'd  you  ever  come, 
To-day,  of  all  days! 

JUDITH.     To-day?     Why  not  to-day 
As  well  as  any  other? 
Come,  woman,  I'd  know  that  before  I  go. 
I've  half  a  mind  to  stay  till  Jim  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     Nay,  daughter,  nay! 
You  said  that  you  would  go; 
You  know,  you  said  .  .  . 

JUDITH  [sitting  down  again].     Perhaps,  I've  changed 

my  mind. 

I  liked  the  cake ;  and,  maybe,  if  I  stay, 
There'll  be  some  more  of  it. 
It  isn't  every  day  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     Judith,  you  know! 

JUDITH.     Nay;  I  know  nothing  — 
Only  what  you  tell  me. 

ELIZA.     Then  I  will  tell  you  everything. 
You'll  never  have  the  heart  to  stay  .  .  . 


WOMENKIND 

The  heart  to  stay,  and  shame  us, 
When  you  know  all. 

JUDITH.     When  I  know  all? 

ELIZA.     Lass,  when  you  talked  of  weddings, 
You'd  hit  upon  the  truth: 
And  Jim  brings  home  his  bride,  to-day. 

JUDITH.     And  Jim  brings  home  his  bride  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     Ay,  lass ;  you  would  not  stay  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     And  Jim  brings  home  his  bride  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     They'll  soon  be  here  .  .  . 
I  looked  for  them,  ere  now. 
But,  you've  still  time  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     The  bride  comes  home : 
And  you  and  I  must  take  the  road, 
My  bonnie  babe,  my  little  lass, 
Lest  she  should  blush  to  see  us. 
We're  not  a  sight  for  decent  folk, 
My  little  lass,  my  bonnie  babe, 
And  we  must  go  ... 
The  bride  comes  home  to-day  .  .  . 
We're  no  fit  sight  for  fair  young  brides, 
Nor  yet  for  gallant  bridegrooms. 
If  we  should  meet  them  on  the  road, 
You  must  not  cry  to  him  .  .  . 
I  must  not  lift  my  eyes  to  his  ... 
We're  naught  to  him,  the  gallant  bridegroom. 
And  she  might  hear  your  cry  .  .  . 
The  bonnie  bride  .  .  . 
Her  eyes  might  meet  my  eyes  .  .  . 
Your  cry  might  tell  her  heart  too  much : 
My  eyes  might  show  her  heart  too  much  .  .  . 
Some  bush  must  hide  our  shame,  till  they  are  by, 
The  bonnie  bride  and  bridegroom, 
If  we  should  meet  them  on  the  road, 
Their  road,  and  ours  .  .  .  the  road's  the  same, 
Though  we  be  travelling  different  ways. 
The  bride  comes  home,  the  bride  comes  home,  to-day 
And  you  and  I  must  take  the  road. 

ELIZA.     Ay,  lass ;  there's  nothing  else  for  it. 

JUDITH.     There's  nothing  else? 

ELIZA.     Nay,  lass !     How  could  you  stay  now  ? 
They'll  soon  be  here  .  .  . 
But,  you'll  not  meet  them,  if  you  go  ... 

JUDITH.     Go  .  .  .  where? 


WOMENKIND  211 

ELIZA.     And  how  should  I  know  where  you're  bound 

for? 
I  thought  you  might  be  making  home. 

JUDITH.     Home  .  .  .  home  .  .  .  and  where's  my 

home  — 
Ay!  and  my  child's  home,  if  it  be  not  here? 

ELIZA.     Here,  daughter!     You'd  not  stay  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     Why  not  ...  have  I  no  right?  .  .  . 

ELIZA.     If  you'll  not  go  for  my  sake, 
Go,  for  Jim's. 

If  you  were  ever  fond  of  him, 
You  would  not  have  him  shamed. 

JUDITH.     And,  think  you,  woman,  I'd  be  here, 
If  I  had  not  been  fond  .  .  . 
And  yet  why  should  I  spare  him? 
He's  spared  me  little. 

ELIZA.     But,  think  of  her,  his  bride, 
And  her  home-coming! 

JUDITH.     Ay  ...  I'll  go. 
God  help  her,  that  she  never  suffer, 
As  I  have  suffered  for  your  son. 
Jim !     Jim ! 

ELIZA.     You  lose  but  little,  daughter. 
I  know,  too  well,  how  little, 
For  I've  lived  forty  years  at  Krindlesyke. 

JUDITH.     Maybe,  you  never  loved  .  .  . 
And  you  don't  know  the  road  .  .  . 
The  road  I've  come, 
The  road  that  I  must  go  ... 
You've  never  tramped  it  ... 
God  send  it  stretch  not  forty  years! 

ELIZA.     I've  come  that  forty  years. 
We're  out  upon  the  same  road,  daughter, 
The  bride,  and  you,  and  I  ... 
And  she  has  still  the  stoniest  bit  to  travel. 
We've  known  the  worst  .  .  . 
And  you've  your  little  lass. 
Thank  God,  it's  not  a  son  .  .  . 
If  I  had  only  had  one  daughter  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     You'll  have  a  daughter,  now. 
But  I  must  go,  before  she  comes. 
The  bride  comes  home  .  .  . 
Jim  brings  a  daughter  home  for  you. 


WOMENKIND 

[As  she  speaks,  a  step  is  heard,  and  EZRA  BARRAS- 
FORD  appears  in  the  doorway.  Turning  to  go, 
JUDITH  meets  him.  She  tries  to  pass  him,  but 
he  clutches  her  arm,  and  she  stands  as  if  dazed, 
while  his  fingers  grope  over  her.] 

EZRA.     So,  Jim's  got  back? 
I  never  heard  you  come,  lad. 
But,  I  am  growing  deaf. 
As  deaf  as  a  stone-wall. 
I  couldn't  hear  the  curlew,  not  a  note; 
I  used  to  like  to  hear  them  .  .  . 
And  now,  I'll  never  hear  them,  any  more. 
But,  I  forget  .  .  . 
You're  welcome  home  .  .  . 
Is  this  the  bonnie  bride? 

You're  welcome  home  to  Krindlesyke.  [feeling  her  face]. 
Why,  wife,  it's  Judith,  after  all! 
I  knew  'twas  she  that  was  to  be  Jim's  bride. 
You  said  'twas  some  one  else  .  .  . 
I  can't  remember  .  .  .  some  outlandish  name. 
But,  I  was  right,  you  see. 
Though  I  be  dull,  at  times, 
And  deafer  than  an  adder, 
I'm  not  so  dull  as  some  folks  think. 
There's  others  growing  old,  as  well  as  I  ... 
You're  welcome  .  .  . 

[His  hand,  travelling  down  JUDITH'S  shoulder, 
touches  the  child.] 

Ah,  a  baby! 

Jim's  child !     Jim's  child ! 

Come,  let  me  take  it,  daughter. 

I've  never  had  a  grandchild  in  my  arms, 

Though  I've  had  many  sons. 

They've  all  been  wild,  but  Jim: 

And  Jim's  the  last  one  left. 

Come,  I'll  not  let  it  fall: 

I've  always  had  a  way  with  babies, 

With  babies,  and  with  women. 

[He  snatches  the  child  from  JUDITH,  before  she  real- 
ises what  he  is  ajter,  and  hobbles  away  with  it  to 


WOMENKIND  213 

the  settle  beside  the  fire.  Before  she  can  move 
to  follow  him,  footsteps  are  heard  on  the  thresh- 
old.] 

ELIZA.     Ah,  God,  they're  at  the  door! 

[As  she  speaks,  JIM  BARRASFORD  and  PHCEBE,  his 
bride,  enter,  talking  and  laughing.  JUDITH 
ELLERSHAW  shrinks  into  the  shadow  behind  the 
door,  while  they  come  between  her  and  the  high- 
backed  settle  on  which  EZRA  is  'Sitting,  with  the 
child,  out  of  sight.  ELIZA  stands  dazed,  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.] 

JIM.     Well  ...  so  that's  over! 
And  we're  home,  at  last! 
I  hope  the  tea  is  ready. 
I'm  almost  famished,  mother  — 
As  hungry  as  a  hawk. 
I've  hardly  had  a  bite,  to-day: 
And  getting  married's  hungry  work, 
As  Phoebe  knows  .  .  . 
But,  you've  stopped  laughing,  now,  lass  .  .  . 
And  you  look  scared  .  .  . 
There's  nothing  here  to  scare  you. 
Have  you  no  word  of  welcome,  mother, 
That  you  stand  like  a  stock,  and  gaping  — 
And  gaping  like  a  foundered  ewe? 
I'll  have  you  give  my  bride  the  greeting 
That's  due  to  her,  my  bride  .  .  . 
Poor  lass,  she's  all  atremble  .  .  . 
But,  we'll  soon  see  who's  mistress! 

ELIZA  [coming  forward].     You're  welcome,  daughter. 
May  you  .  .  . 

EZRA  [crooning,  unseen,  to  the  baby],     "  Sing  to  your 

mammy ! 
Sing  to  your  daddy!  " 

JIM.     What  ails  the  old  fool  now? 
You  must  not  heed  him,  Phcebe. 
He's  simple;  there's  no  harm  in  him. 

[Going  towards  the  settle.] 
Come,  dad,  and  stir  your  stumps  .  .  . 


2i4  WOMENKIND 

Why,  mother,  what  is  this! 
Whose  brat  .  .  . 

EZRA.     Whose  brat!     Whose  brat! 
And  who  should  know  but  he ! 
He's  gay  .  .  .  he's  gay! 
He  asks  whose  brat! 

Maybe,  you  came  too  soon,  my  little  lass: 
But,  he's  a  funny  daddy, 
To  ask  whose  brat!  [crooning]. 
11  Sing  to  your  mammy  .  .  ." 

[JUDITH  ELLERSHAW  steps  forward  to  take  the  child 
from  EZRA.] 

JIM.     You!     Judith  Ellershaw! 
Why,  lass  .  .  . 

[He  moves  to  meet  her,  but  stops  in  confusion.  A'o 
one  speaks,  as  JUDITH  takes  the  child,  and  wraps 
it  in  her  shawl.  She  is  moving  towards  the 
door,  when  PHCEBE  steps  before  her,  and  shuts 
it,  then  turns  and  faces  JUDITH.] 

PHCEBE.     You  shall  not  go. 

JUDITH.     And  who  are  you  to  stay  me? 

PHCEBE.     I  ...  I'm  Jim's  bride. 

JUDITH.     And  what  should  Jim's  bride  have  to  say  to 

me? 
Come,  let  me  pass. 

PHCEBE.    You  shall  not  go. 

JUDITH.     Nay,  woman,  let  me  by! 
You  do  not  know  me  for  the  thing  I  am. 
If  you  but  guessed,  you'd  fling  the  door  wide  open; 
And  draw  your  skirts  about  you, 
Lest  any  rag  of  mine  should  smirch  them. 
I'm  not  fit  company  for  fair  young  brides. 
I  never  should  have  come  'mid  decent  folk. 
You  little  know  .  .  . 

PHCEBE.     I  heard  your  name  just  now  .  .  . 
And  I  have  heard  that  name  before. 

JUDITH.  You've  heard  my  name  before! 
I  wonder  .  .  .  but  you  heard  no  good  of  it, 
Whoever  spoke  .  .  . 

PHCEBE.     I  heard  it  from  the  lips 


WOMENKIND  215 

That  uttered  it  just  now. 

JUDITH.     From  Jim ! 
Well  .  .  .  Jim  knows  what  I  am. 
I  wonder  that  he  lets  you  talk  with  me. 
Come,  woman,  I  must  go. 

PHCEBE.     Not  till  I  know  the  name  of  your  child's 
father. 

JUDITH.     Nay!  you've  no  right  to  ask  it. 

PHCEBE.     Maybe  .  .  .  and   yet,    you   shall   not   cross 

that  step, 
Until  you  tell  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     Come,  woman,  don't  be  foolish. 

PHCEBE.     You  say  that  I've  no  right. 
Pray  God,  you  speak  the  truth. 
Yet,  there  may  be  no  woman  in  the  world 
Who  has  a  better  right. 

JUDITH.     Why,  lass:  you'd  surely  never  heed 
An  old  man's  witless  babble ! 
A  poor,  old  crazy  .  .  . 

PHCEBE  [still  facing  JUDITH].     If  I've  no  right,  you 

will  not  have  the  heart 
To  keep  the  name  from  me. 
But  .set  my  mind  at  ease. 

JUDITH.     I  will  not  have  the  heart! 
If  it  will  set  your  mind  at  ease, 
I'll  speak  my  shame  .  .  . 
I'll  speak  my  shame  right  out  .  .  . 
I'll  speak  my  shame  right  out  before  you  all. 

JIM.     But,  lass  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     I  would  not  have  a  bride  unhappy, 
Upon  her  wedding-day. 

The  father  of  my  child  was  William  Burn  .  .  . 
A  stranger  to  these  parts  .  .  . 
Now  ...  let  me  pass. 

[She  tries  to  slip  by,  but  PHCEBE  does  not  make  way 
for  her.] 

JIM.     Ay,  Phoebe:  let  her  go: 
Don't  be  too  hard  on  her : 
She's  told  you  what  you  asked  .  .  . 
Though,  why  .  .  .  unless  ...  , 

Yet,  I  don't  blame  the  /ass. 
She  should  know  best. 


2i6  WOMENKIND 

PHCEBE  [to  JUDITH,  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes]. 
You  lie! 

JUDITH.     I  lie? 

PHCEBE.     To-day,  I  wedded  your  child's  father. 

ELIZA.     O  God! 

JIM.     Come,  lass,  I  say  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     No!  woman,  no! 
I  spoke  the  truth. 

Have  I  not  shamed  myself  enough,  already, 
That  you  must  call  me  liar? 
[To  ELIZA.]     Speak  out,  speak  out,  and  tell  .  .  . 
At  least,  you  know  me  well  enough 
To  tell  her  I'm  no  liar. 
Speak  out,  if  you're  not  tongue-tied: 
And  tell  her  all  you  know  .  .  . 
How  I'm  a  byeword  among  honest  women, 
And  yet,  no  liar  .  .  .  Speak! 
You'd  tongue  enough  a  while  ago: 
And  have  you  none  to  answer  your  son's  wife ; 
And  save  your  son  from  slander? 

ELIZA  [hesitatingly].     I  never  knew  the  lass  to  lie. 

[While  they  have  been  talking,  EZRA  has  risen  from 
the  settle,  unnoticed,  and  has  hobbled  round  to 
where  PHCEBE  and  JUDITH  are  standing.  He 
suddenly  touches  PHCEBE'S  arm.] 

EZRA.     Give  me  the  babe  again  .  .  . 
Nay !  this  is  not  the  lass  .  .  . 
I  want  Jim's  bride, 
The  mother  of  his  daughter. 
Come,  Judith,  lass,  where  are  you? 
I  want  to  nurse  my  grandchild, 
The  little  lass,  Jim's  little  lass. 

[While  he  is  speaking,  JUDITH  tries  to  slip  past 
PHCEBE,  but  EZRA  clutches  hold  of  her,  and 
PHCEBE  sets  her  back  against  the  door.  ELIZA 
goes  up  to  EZRA  and  takes  him  by  the  arm, 
and  leads  him,  mutteringly,  back  to  the  settle.] 

ELIZA.     Come,  Ezra,  hold  your  foolish  tongue. 
You  don't  know  what  you're  saying  .  .  . 
JIM.     If  he  don't  hold  his  tongue,  I'll  .  .  . 


WOMENKIND  217 

JUDITH    [to  PHCEBE].     And  will  you  weigh  an  old 

man's  witlessness 
Against  my  word  ? 

O  woman,  pay  no  heed  to  idle  tongues, 
If  you  would  keep  your  happiness! 

PHCEBE  [looking  her  in  the  face].     But,  even  while  the 

tongue  is  lying, 
The  eyes  speak  out  the  truth. 

JUDITH.     The  eyes! 
Then,  you  will  pay  no  heed  to  me ; 
But  let  a  dothering  old  man 
Destroy  your  life  with  idle  chatter. 
You  know  my  worth! 
Yet,  if  you  care  for  Jim, 
You'll  trust  his  word. 
If  Jim  denies  the  child, 
Then,  you'll  believe  .  .  . 
You  would  not  doubt  your  husband's  word, 
And  on  your  wedding-day  .  .  . 
Small  wonder  you  doubt  mine: 
You've  got  good  reason  .  .  . 
But,  Jim's  not  my  sort:  he's  an  honest  lad: 
And  he'll  speak  true  .  .  . 
If  Jim  denies  the  child  .  .  . 

PHCEBE.     If  Jim  can  look  me  in  the  eyes  .  .  . 

JUDITH.     Speak,  Jim,  and  set  her  mind  at  ease. 
Don't  spare  me,  Jim;  but  tell  her  all: 
For  she's  your  wife ;  and  has  a  right  to  know 
The  child's  no  child  of  yours. 


[JiM  stands,  hesitating.] 


Come,  lad,  speak  out! 

And  don't  stand  gaping  there. 

You  know,  as  well  as  I,  the  child 

Speak!  speak! 

Have  you  no  tongue? 


Don't  think  of  me  ... 
You've  naught  to  fear  from  me. 
Tell  all  you  know  of  me  right  out 
No  word  of  yours  can  hurt  me  . 


[He  still  hesitates.] 


218  WOMENKIND 

I'm  shameless,  now  .  .  . 

You  know,  my  father  turned  me  out  .  .  . 

[JiM  still  hesitates.] 

Speak,  lad!     Your  wife  is  waiting. 

If  you  don't  tell  the  truth,  and  quickly, 

You'll  have  a  merry  life  of  it,  I'll  warrant! 

I  would  not  be  in  your  shoes  .  .  . 

See,  how  she's  badgered  me: 

And  all  because  .  .  . 

Come,  be  a  man!  and  speak! 

JIM.     The  brat's  no  child  of  mine  .  .  . 
Phoebe,  I  swear  .  .  . 

[He  stops  in  confusion,  and  drops  his  eyes.  After 
a  pause,  PHCEBE  turns  from  him  and  lays  one 
hand  on  the  latch  and  the  other  on  JUDITH'S 
arm.] 

PHCEBE  [to  JUDITH].     Come,  lass,  it's  time  that  we 

were  getting  home. 
JUDITH  [starting  back].     That  we? 
PHCEBE.     Unless  you  wish  to  stay? 
JUDITH.     I  stay?  .  .  .  You  mean  .  .  . 

0  God,  what  have  I  done! 

That  I  had  never  crossed  this  door! 

ELIZA  [to  PHCEBE].     You're  never  going,  woman! 
You're  his  wife  .  .  . 
You  cannot  leave  him  .  .  . 

JIM.     Leave !     Leave  me !     She's  mad ! 

1  never  heard  .  .  .  and  on  my  wedding-day! 
But,  I'm  your  husband: 

And  I  bid  you  bide. 

PHCEBE.     Oh,  Jim,  if  you  had  only  told  the  truth  .  .  . 
I  might  .  .  . 
God  knows  .  .  . 
For  I  was  fond  .  .  . 

JIM.     Ay!  now,  you're  talking  sense. 
It's  well  to  let  a  woman  know  who's  master. 
And  what's  the  odds,  lass,  even  if  the  brat  .  .  . 

PHCEBE  [to  JUDITH].     Come,  Judith,  are  you  ready? 
It's  time  that  we  were  getting  home. 

JUDITH.     Home?     I've  no  home  .  .  . 


WOMENKIND  219 

I've  long  been  homeless. 

PHCEBE.     That  much  he  told  me  of  you : 
He  spoke  the  truth,  so  far. 
Thank  God,  he  could  not  rob  me  of  my  home ! 
My  mother  will  be  glad  to  have  me  back : 
And  she  will  welcome  you, 
If  only  for  your  baby's  sake. 
She's  just  a  child,  to  children. 
We're  poor ;  and  labour  hard  for  all  we  have. 
There's  but  two  rooms: 
So  we  must  lie  together, 
Unless  you  are  too  proud  .  .  . 
Nay,  lass:  I  see  you'll  come  with  me: 
And  we  will  live,  and  work,  and  tend  the  child, 
As  sisters,  we  who  care  .  .  . 
Come,  Judith! 

'[She  flings  the  door  wide,  and  goes  out,  without 
looking  back.  JIM  steps  forward  to  stay  her, 
but  halts  in  the  doorway,  and  stands  staring 
after  her.} 

JIM.     Nay,  lass !  I  bid  you  stay  .  .  . 
I  bid  ...  I  bid  ... 
The  blasted  wench!     She's  gone! 

[He  stands  speechless,  but  at  last  turns  to  JUDITH, 
who  is  still  gazing  after  PHCEBE  with  an  un- 
realising  stare.} 

Well  .  .  .  you  will  not  forsake  me,  Judith? 
Old  friends  are  best  .  .  . 
And  I  ...  I  always  liked  you. 
And  so,  this  is  my  baby! 
Who'd  have  thought  .  .  . 

[JUDITH  starts,  clutches  her  baby  to  her  breast,  and 
slips  past  him.} 

JUDITH  [calling],     I'm  coming,  Phoebe  .  .  . 
Coming  home  with  you  .  .  . 

[JiM  stands  in  the  dooncay,  staring  after  her  dumb- 
founded, till  they  are  both  out  of  sight,  when 
he  turns  and  slams  the  door  to.] 


220  WOMENKIND 

JIM.     I've  done  with  women; 
They're  a  faithless  lot. 

EZRA.     Ay:  womenkind  are  all  the  same: 
I've  ever  found  them  faithless. 
But,  where's  your  baby,  Jim, 
Your  little  lass? 

JIM.     They've  taken  even  her  from  me. 

[ELIZA,  who  has  been  filling  the  teapot,  takes  EZRA 
by  the  arm,  and  leads  him  to  a  seat  at  the  table.] 

ELIZA.     Come,  husband,  take  your  tea,  before  it's  cold : 
And  you,  too,  son. 

Ay:  we're  a  faithless  lot. 

(1909) 


FIRES 

(I9IO-I9II) 


TO 

GEORGE  CLAUSEN 
A  TRIBUTE 


Snug  in  my  easy  chair, 

I  stirred  the  fire  to  flame. 

Fantastically  fair, 

The  flickering  fancies  came, 

Born  of  heart's  desire: 

Amber  woodland  streaming; 

Topaz  islands  dreaming; 

Sunset-cities  gleaming, 

Spire  on  burning  spire; 

Ruddy-windowed  taverns; 

Sunshine-spilling  wines; 

Crystal-lighted  caverns 

Of  Golconda's  mines; 

Summers,  unreturning; 

Passion's  crater  yearning; 

Troy,  the  ever-burning; 

Shelley's  lustral  pyre; 

Dragon-eyes,  unsleeping ; 

Witches'  cauldrons  leaping; 

Golden  galleys  sweeping 

Out  from  sea-walled  Tyre: 

Fancies,  fugitive  and  fair, 

Flashed  with  singing  through  the  air; 

Till,  dazzled  by  the  drowsy  glare, 

I  shut  my  eyes  to  heat  and  light; 

And  saw,  in  sudden  night, 

Crouched  in  the  dripping  dark, 

With  steaming  shoulders  stark, 

The  man  who  hews  the  coal  to  feed  my  fire. 


FIRES 


THE  STONE 

"  And  will  you  cut  a  stone  for  him, 
To  set  above  his  head  ? 
And  will  you  cut  a  stone  for  him  — 
A  stone  for  him?  "  she  said. 

Three  days  before,  a  splintered  rock 

Had  struck  her  lover  dead  — 

Had  struck  him  in  the  quarry  dead, 

Where,  careless  of  the  warning  call, 

He  loitered,  while  the  shot  was  fired  — 

A  lively  stripling,  brave  and  tall, 

And  sure  of  all  his  heart  desired  .  .  . 

A  flash,  a  shock, 

A  rumbling  fall  .  .  . 

And,  broken  'neath  the  broken  rock, 

A  lifeless  heap,  with  face  of  clay, 

And  still  as  any  stone  he  lay, 

With  eyes  that  saw  the  end  of  all. 

I  went  to  break  the  news  to  her : 
And  I  could  hear  my  own  heart  beat 
With  dread  of  what  my  lips  might  say; 
But  some  poor  fool  had  sped  before; 
And,  flinging  wide  her  father's  door, 
Had  blurted  out  the  news  to  her, 
Had  struck  her  lover  dead  for  her, 
Had  struck  the  girl's  heart  dead  in  her, 
Had  struck  life,  lifeless,  at  a  word, 
And  dropped  it  at  her  feet: 
Then  hurried  on  his  witless  way, 
Scarce  knowing  she  had  heard. 

And  when  I  came,  she  stood  alone  — 
A  woman,  turned  to  stone: 
235 


226  FIRES 

And,  though  no  word  at  all  she  said, 
I  knew  that  all  was  known. 

Because  her  heart  was  dead, 

She  did  not  sigh  nor  moan. 

His  mother  wept: 

She  could  not  weep. 

Her  lover  slept: 

She  could  not  sleep. 

Three  days,  three  nights, 

She  did  not  stir: 

Three  days,  three  nights, 

Were  one  to  her, 

Who  never  closed  her  eyes 

From  sunset  to  sunrise, 

From  dawn  to  evenfall  — 

Her  tearless,  staring  eyes, 

That,  seeing  naught,  saw  all. 

The  fourth  night  when  I  came  from  work, 

I  found  her  at  my  door. 

"  And  will  you  cut  a  stone  for  him?  " 

She  said:  and  spoke  no  more: 

But  followed  me,  as  I  went  in, 

And  sank  upon  a  chair; 

And  fixed  her  grey  eyes  on  my  face, 

With  still,  unseeing  stare. 

And,  as  she  waited  patiently, 

I  could  not  bear  to  feel 

Those  still,  grey  eyes  that  followed  me, 

Those  eyes  that  plucked  the  heart  from  me, 

Those  eyes  that  sucked  the  breath  from  me 

And  curdled  the  warm  blood  in  me, 

Those  eyes  that  cut  me  to  the  bone, 

And  pierced  my  marrow  like  cold  steel. 

And  so  I  rose,  and  sought  a  stone ; 

And  cut  it,  smooth  and  square: 

And,  as  I  worked,  she  sat  and  watched, 

Beside  me,  in  her  chair. 

Night  after  night,  by  candlelight, 

I  cut  her  lover's  name: 

Night  after  night,  so  still  and  white, 

And  like  a  ghost  she  came ; 


FIRES  227 


And  sat  beside  me,  in  her  chair, 
And  watched  with  eyes  aflame. 

She  eyed  each  stroke, 

And  hardly  stirred: 

She  never  spoke 

A  single  word : 

And  not  a  sound  or  murmur  broke 

The  quiet,  save  the  mallet-stroke. 

With  still  eyes  ever  on  my  hands, 
With  eyes  that  seemed  to  burn  my  hands, 
My  wincing,  overwearied  hands, 
She  watched,  with  bloodless  lips  apart, 
And  silent,  indrawn  breath: 
And  every  stroke  my  chisel  cut, 
Death  cut  still  deeper  in  her  heart: 
The  two  of  us  were  chiselling, 
Together,  I  and  death. 

And  when  at  length  the  job  was  done, 
And  I  had  laid  the  mallet  by, 
As  if,  at  last,  her  peace  were  won, 
She  breathed  his  name;  and,  with  a  sigh, 
Passed  slowly  through  the  open  door: 
And  never  crossed  my  threshold  more. 

Next  night  I  laboured  late,  alone, 
To  cut  her  name  upon  the  stone. 


THE  WIFE 

That  night  she  dreamt  that  he  had  died, 
As  they  were  sleeping,  side  by  side: 
And  she  awakened  in  affright, 
To  think  of  him,  so  cold  and  white : 
And,  when  she  turned  her  eyes  to  him, 
The  tears  of  dream  had  made  them  dim 
And,  for  a  while,  she  could  not  see 
That  he  was  sleeping  quietly. 
But,  as  she  saw  him  lying  there, 
The  moonlight  on  his  curly  hair, 
With  happy  face  and  even  breath, 
Although  she  thought  no  more  of  death; 
And  it  was  very  good  to  rest 
Her  trembling  hand  on  his  calm  breast, 
And  feel  the  warm  and  breathing  life ; 
And  know  that  she  was  still  his  wife; 
Yet,  in  his  bosom's  easy  stir, 
She  felt  a  something  trouble  her; 
And  wept  again,  she  knew  not  why; 
And  thought  it  would  be  good  to  die  — 
To  sink  into  the  deep,  sweet  rest, 
Her  hand  upon  his  quiet  breast. 

She  slept:  and  when  she  woke  again, 
A  bird  was  at  the  window-pane, 
A  wild-eyed  bird,  with  wings  of  white 
That  fluttered  in  the  cold  moonlight, 
As  though  for  very  fear  of  night  ; 
And  flapped  the  pane,  as  if  afraid: 
Yet,  not  a  sound  the  white  wings  made. 
Her  eyes  met  those  beseeching  eyes; 
And  then  she  felt  she  needs  must  rise, 
To  let  the  poor,  wild  creature  in 
To  find  the  rest  it  sought  to  win. 
She  rose  and  set  the  casement  wide, 
And  caught  the  murmur  of  the  tide; 
And  saw,  afar,  the  mounded  graves 


FIRES  229 

About  the  church  beside  the  waves  — 
The  huddled  headstones  gleaming  white 
And  ghostly  in  the  cold  moonlight. 

The  bird  flew  straightway  to  the  bed; 

And  hovered  o'er  the  husband's  head, 

And  circled  thrice  above  his  head, 

Three  times  above  his  dreaming  head: 

And,  as  she  watched  it  flying  round, 

She  wondered  that  it  made  no  sound ; 

And  while  she  wondered,  it  was  gone: 

And  cold  and  white  the  moonlight  shone 

Upon  her  husband,  sleeping  there; 

And  turned  to  silver  his  gold  hair; 

And  paled  like  death  his  ruddy  face. 

Then,  creeping  back  into  her  place, 

She  lay  beside  him  in  the  bed: 

But,  if  she  closed  her  eyes,  with  dread 

She  saw  that  wild  bird's  eyes  that  burned 

Through  her  shut  eyelids,  though  she  turned 

Her  blessings  over  in  her  heart, 

That  peace  might  come:  and  with  a  start, 

If  she  but  drowsed,  or  dreamt  of  rest, 

She  felt  that  wild  beak  in  her  breast. 

So,  wearying  for  the  time  to  rise, 

She  watched,  till  dawn  was  in  the  skies. 

Her  husband  woke :  but  not  a  word 
She  told  him  of  the  strange,  white  bird: 
But,  as  at  breakfast-time,  she  took 
The  pan  of  porridge  from  the  crook, 
And  all  was  ready  to  begin, 
A  neighbour  gossip  hurried  in, 
And  told  the  news,  that  Phoebe  Wright 
Had  died  in  childbirth  in  the  night. 
The  husband  neither  spoke,  nor  stirred, 
But  sat  as  one  who,  having  heard, 
May  never  hearken  to  a  word 
From  any  living  lips  again; 
And,  heedless  of  the  tongues  of  men, 
Hears,  in  a  silence,  dread  and  deep, 
The  dead  folk  talking  in  their  sleep. 
His  porridge  stood  till  it  was  cold: 
And  as  he  sat,  his  face  grew  old ; 


230  FIRES 

And  all  his  yellow  hair  turned  white, 

As  it  had  looked  to  her  last  night, 

When  it  was  drenched  with  cold  moonlight. 

And  she  knew  all:  yet  never  said 

A  word  to  him  about  the  dead; 

Or  pestered  him  to  take  his  meat: 

But,  sitting  silent  in  her  seat, 

She  left  him  quiet  with  his  heart 

To  thoughts  in  which  she  had  no  part 

Until  he  rose  to  go  about 

His  daily  work;  and  staggered  out. 

And  all  that  day,  her  eyes  were  dim 

That  she  had  borne  no  child  to  him. 

Days  passed:  and  then,  one  evening  late, 
As  she  came  by  the  churchyard-gate, 
She  saw  him,  near  the  new-made  grave : 
And  with  a  lifted  head  and  brave, 
She  hurried  home,  lest  he  should  know 
That  she  had  looked  upon  his  woe. 
And  when  they  sat  beside  the  fire, 
Although  it  seemed  he  could  not  tire 
Of  gazing  on  the  glowing  coal, 
And  though  a  fire  was  in  her  soul ; 
She  sat  beside  him  with  a  smile, 
Lest  he  should  look  on  her,  the  while, 
And  wonder  what  could  make  her  sad 
When  all  the  world  but  him  was  glad. 
But,  not  a  word  to  her  he  said: 
And  silently  they  went  to  bed. 

She  never  closed  her  eyes  that  night: 
And  she  was  stirring,  ere  the  light; 
And  while  her  husband  lay  at  rest, 
She  left  his  side,  and  quickly  dressed ; 
And  stole  downstairs,  as  though  in  fear 
That  he  should  chance  to  wake,  and  hear. 
And  still  the  stars  \vere  burning  bright, 
As  she  passed  out  into  the  night; 
And  all  the  dewy  air  was  sweet 
With  flowers  that  grew  about  her  feet, 
Where  he,  for  her,  when  they  were  wed, 
Had  digged  and  sown  a  wallflower-bed: 
And  on  the  rich,  deep,  mellow  scent 
A  gust  of  memories  came  and  went, 


FIRES  231 

As,  dreaming  of  those  old  glad  hours, 
She  stooped  to  pluck  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
To  lay  upon  the  flowerless  grave 
That  held  his  heart  beside  the  wave. 
Though,  like  a  troop  of  ghosts  in  white, 
The  headstones  watched  in  cold  starlight, 
As,  by  the  dead  girl's  grave  she  knelt, 
No  fear  in  her  full  heart  she  felt: 
But  hurried  home,  when  she  had  laid 
Her  offering  on  the  turf,  afraid 
That  he  should  wake,  and  find  her  gone: 
And  still  the  stars  in  heaven  shone, 
When  into  bed  again  she  crept, 
And  lay  beside  him,  while  he  slept. 
And  when  day  came,  upon  his  hair, 
The  warm  light  fell:  and  young  and  fair, 
He  looked  again  to  her  kind  eyes 
That  watched  him  till  'twas  time  to  rise. 

And,  every  day,  as  he  went  by 

The  churchyard-gate  with  downcast  eye, 

He  saw  fresh  blooms  upon  the  grave 

That  held  his  heart  beside  the  wave: 

And,  wondering,  he  was  glad  to  find 

That  any  living  soul  was  kind 

To  that  dead  girl  who  died  the  death 

Of  shame  for  his  sake:  and  the  breath 

Of  those  fresh  flowers  to  him  was  sweet, 

As  he  trudged  home  with  laggard  feet, 

Still  wondering  who  could  be  her  friend. 

He  never  knew,  until  the  end, 

When,  in  the  churchyard  by  the  wave, 

He  stood  beside  another  grave: 

And,  as  the  priest's  last  words  were  said, 

He  turned,  and  lifting  up  his  head, 

He  saw  the  bunch  of  flowers  was  dead 

Upon  the  dead  girl's  grave ;  and  felt 

The  truth  shoot  through  his  heart,  and  melt 

The  frost  of  icy  bitterness, 

And  flood  his  heart  with  warm  distress: 

And,  kneeling  by  his  dead  wife's  grave, 

To  her,  at  last,  her  hour  he  gave. 

That  night  she  dreamt  he,  too,  had  died, 
And  they  were  sleeping,  side  by  side. 


THE  MACHINE 

Since  Thursday  he'd  been  working  overtime, 
With  only  three  short  hours  for  food  and  sleep, 
When  no  sleep  came,  because  of  the  dull  beat 
Of  his  fagged  brain ;  and  he  could  scarcely  eat. 
And  now,  on  Saturday,  when  he  was  free, 
And  all  his  fellows  hurried  home  to  tea, 
He  was  so  dazed  that  he  could  hardly  keep 
His  hands  from  going  through  the  pantomime 
Of  keeping-even  sheets  in  his  machine  — 
The  sleek  machine  that,  day  and  night, 
Fed  with  paper,  virgin  white, 
Through  those  glaring,  flaring  hours 
In  the  incandescent  light, 
Printed  children's  picture-books  — 
Red  and  yellow,  blue  and  green, 
With  sunny  fields  and  running  brooks, 
Ships  at  sea,  and  golden  sands, 
Queer  white  towns  in  Eastern  lands, 
Tossing  palms  on  coral  strands  — 
Until  at  times  the  clank  and  whirr  and  click, 
And  shimmer  of  white  paper  turned  him  sick; 
And  though  at  first  the  colours  made  him  glad, 
They  soon  were  dancing  in  his  brain  like  mad; 
And  kept  on  flaring  through  his  burning  head : 
Now,  in  a  flash,  the  workshop,  flaming  red  ; 
Now  blazing  green ;  now  staring  blue ; 
And  then  the  yellow  glow  too  well  he  knew: 
Until  the  sleek  machine,  with  roar  and  glare, 
Began  to  take  him  in  a  dazzling  snare ; 
When,  fascinated,  with  a  senseless  stare, 
It  drew  him  slowly  towards  it,  till  his  hair 
Was  caught  betwixt  the  rollers;  but  his  hand, 
Almost  before  his  brain  could  understand, 
Had  clutched  the  lever ;  and  the  wheels  were  stopped 
Just  in  the  nick  of  time;  though  now  he  dropped, 
Half-senseless  on  the  littered  workshop  floor: 
And  he'd  lain  dazed  a  minute  there  or  more, 
When  his  machine-girl  helped  him  to  a  seat. 
But  soon  again  he  was  upon  his  feet, 
And  tending  that  unsatisfied  machine; 
232 


FIRES  •   f       233 

And  printing  pictures,  red  and  blue  and  green, 

Until  again  the  green  and  blue  and  red 

Went  jigging  in  a  riot  through  his  head; 

And,  wildest  of  the  raging  rout, 

The  blinding,  screeching,  racking  yellow  — 

A  crazy  devil  of  a  fellow  — 

O'er  all  the  others  seemed  to  shout. 

For  hands  must  not  be  idle  when  the  year 

Is  getting  through,  and  Christmas  drawing  near, 

With  piles  on  piles  of  picture-books  to  print 

For  people  who  spend  money  without  stint: 

And,  while  they're  paying  down  their  liberal  gold, 

Guess  little  what  is  bought,  and  what  is  sold. 

But  he,  at  last,  was  free  till  Monday,  free 

To  sleep,  to  eat,  to  dream,  to  sulk,  to  walk, 

To  laugh,  to  sing,  to  whistle,  or  to  talk  .  .  . 

If  only,  through  his  brain,  unceasingly, 

The  wheels  would  not  keep  whirring,  while  the  smell  — 

The  oily  smell  of  thick  and  sticky  glaze 

Clung  to  his  nostrils,  till  'twas  hard  to  tell 

If  he  were  really  out  in  the  fresh  air; 

And  still  before  his  eyes,  the  blind,  white  glare, 

And  then  the  colours  dancing  in  his  head, 

A  maddening  maze  of  yellow,  blue  and  red. 

So,  on  he  wandered  in  a  kind  of  daze, 

Too  racked  with  sleeplessness  to  think  of  bed 

Save  as  a  hell,  where  you  must  toss  and  toss, 

With  colours  shooting  in  insane  criss-cross 

Before  wide,  prickling,  gritty,  sleepless  eyes. 

But,  as  he  walked  along  the  darkening  street 
Too  tired  to  rest,  and  far  too  spent  to  eat, 
The  swish  and  patter  of  the  passing  feet, 
The  living,  human  murmur,  and  keen  cries, 
The  deep,  cool  shadows  of  the  coming  night, 
About  quick-kindling  jets  of  clustered  light; 
And  the  fresh  breathing  of  the  rain-washed  air, 
Brought  something  of  sweet  healing  to  his  mind ; 
And,  though  he  trailed  along  as  if  half-blind, 
Yet  often  on  the  pavement  he  would  stop 
To  gaze  at  goods  displayed  within  a  shop; 
And  wonder,  in  a  dull  and  lifeless  way, 
What  they  had  cost,  and  who'd  the  price  to  pay. 


234  FIRES 

But  those  two  kinds  of  shop  which,  as  a  boy, 
Had  been  to  him  a  never-failing  joy, 
The  bookshop  and  the  fruitshop,  he  passed  by, 
As  if  their  colours  seared  his  wincing  eye ; 
For  still  he  feared  the  yellow,  blue  and  red 
Would  start  that  devils'  dancing  in  his  head. 
And  soon,  through  throngs  of  people  almost  gay 
To  be  let  loose  from  work,  he  pushed  his  way ; 
And  ripples  of  their  careless  laughter  stole 
Like  waves  of  cooling  waters  through  his  soul, 
While  sometimes  he  would  lift  his  aching  eyes, 
And  see  a  child's  face,  flushed  with  proud  surprise, 
As,  gripping  both  its  parents'  hands  quite  tight, 
It  found  itself  in  fairylands  of  light, 
Walking  with  grown-up  people  through  the  night: 
Then,  turning,  with  a  shudder  he  would  see 
Poor  painted  faces,  leering  frightfully, 
And  so  drop  back  from  heaven  again  to  hell. 

And  then,  somehow,  though  how  he  scarce  could  tell, 

He  found  that  he  was  walking  through  the  throng, 

Quite  happy,  with  a  young  girl  at  his  side  — 

A  young  girl  apple-cheeked  and  eager-eyed ; 

And  her  frank,  friendly  chatter  seemed  a  song 

To  him,  who  ne'er  till  now  had  heard  life  sing. 

And  youth  within  him  kindled  quick  and  strong, 

As  he  drank  in  that  careless  chattering. 

She  told  him  how  just  lately  she  had  come 

From  some  far  Northern  Isle  to  earn  her  bread ; 

And  in  a  stuffy  office  all  day  long, 

In  shiny  ledgers,  with  a  splitting  head, 

She  added  dazzling  figures  till  they  danced, 

And  tied  themselves  in  wriggling  knots,  and  pranced, 

And  scrambled  helter-skelter  o'er  the  page: 

And  though  it  seemed  already  quite  an  age 

Since  she  had  left  her  home,  from  end  to  end 

Of  this  big  town  she  had  not  any  friend : 

At  times  she  almost  dreaded  she'd  go  dumb, 

With  not  a  soul  to  speak  to ;  for,  at  home 

In  her  own  Island,  she  knew  every  one  .  .  . 

No  strangers  there !  save  when  the  tinkers  came, 

With  pots  and  pans  a-glinting  in  the  sun  — 

You  saw  the  tin  far  off,  like  glancing  flame, 

As  all  about  the  Island  they  would  roam.  .  .  . 


FIRES  235 

Then,  of  themselves  at  home,  there  were  six  brothers, 

Five  sisters,  with  herself,  besides  the  others  — 

Two  homeless  babes,  whom,  having  last  their  mothers, 

Her  mother'd  taken  in  among  her  own  .  .  . 

And  she  in  all  her  life  had  hardly  known 

Her  mother  with  no  baby  at  her  breast  .  .  . 

She'd  always  sing  to  hush  them  all  to  sleep  ; 

And  sang,  too,  for  the  dancing,  sang  to  keep 

The  feet  in  time  and  tune ;  and  still  sang  best, 

Clean  best  of  all  the  singers  of  the  Isle. 

And  as  she  talked  of  home,  he  saw  her  smile, 

With  happy,  far-off  gaze ;  and  then  as  though 

In  wonder  how  she'd  come  to  chatter  so 

To  this  pale,  grave-eyed  boy,  she  paused,  half  shy; 

And  then  she  laughed,  with  laughter  clear  and  true ; 

And  looked  into  his  eyes ;  and  he  laughed  too, 

And  they  were  happy,  hardly  knowing  why. 

And  now  he  told  her  of  his  life,  and  how 

He  too  had  been  nigh  friendless,  until  now. 

And  soon  he  talked  to  her  about  his  work; 

But  when  he  spoke  of  it,  as  with  a  jerk, 

The  light  dropped  from  his  eyes.     He  seemed  to  slip 

Once  more  in  the  machine's  relentless  grip; 

And  hear  again  the  clank  and  whirr  and  click; 

And  see  the  dancing  colours  and  the  glare; 

Until  his  dizzy  brain  again  turned  sick: 

And  seeing  him  look  round  with  vacant  air, 

Fierce  pity  cut  her  to  the  very  quick; 

And  as  her  eyes  with  keen  distress  were  filled, 

She  touched  his  hand ;  and  soon  her  kind  touch  stilled 

The  agony:  and  so,  to  bring  him  ease, 

She  told  more  of  that  Isle  in  Northern  seas, 

Where  she  was  born,  and  of  the  folks  at  home: 

And  how,  all  night,  you  heard  the  wash  of  foam  .  .  . 

Sometimes,  on  stormy  nights,  against  the  pane 

The  sousing  spray  would  rattle  just  like  rain; 

And  oft  the  high-tides  scoured  the  threshold  clean  .  .  . 

And  as  she  talked,  he  saw  the  sea-light  glint 
In  her  dark  eyes:  and  then  the  sleek  machine 
Lost  hold  on  him  at  last ;  and  ceased  to  print : 
And  in  his  eyes  there  .sprang  a  kindred  light, 
As,  hand  in  hand,  they  wandered  through  the  night. 


THE  LODESTAR 

From  hag  to  hag,  o'er  miles  of  quaking  moss, 

Benighted,  in  an  unknown  countryside, 

Among  gaunt  hills,  the  stars  my  only  guide ; 

Bewildered  by  peat-waters,  black  and  deep, 

Wherein  the  mocking  stars  swam ;  spent  for  sleep ; 

O'er-wearied  by  long  trudging;  at  a  loss 

Which  way  to  turn  for  shelter  from  the  night ; 

I  struggled  on,  until,  my  head  grown  light 

From  utter  weariness,  I  almost  sank 

To  rest  among  the  tussocks,  soft  and  dank, 

Drowsing,  half-dazed,  and  murmuring  it  were  best 

To  stray  no  further,  but  to  lie  at  rest, 

Beneath  the  cold,  white  stars,  for  evermore: 

When,  suddenly,  I  came  across 

A  runnel  oozing  from  the  moss ; 

And  knew  that,  if  I  followed  where  it  led, 

'T would  bring  me  to  a  valley,  in  the  end, 

Where  there'd  be  houses,  and,  perhaps,  a  bed. 

And  so  the  little  runnel  was  my  friend ; 
And  as  I  walked  beside  its  path,  at  first 
It  kept  a  friendly  silence:  then  it  burst 
Into  a  friendly  singing,  as  it  rambled, 
Among  big  boulders,  down  a  craggy  steep, 
'Mid  bracken,  nigh  breast-deep, 
Through  which  I  scrambled, 
Half-blind  and  numb  for  sleep, 
Until  it  seemed  that  I  could  strive  no  more: 
When,  startled  by  a  startled  sheep, 
Looking  down,  I  saw  a  track  — 
A  stony  trackway,  dimly  white, 
Disappearing  in  the  night, 
Across  a  waste  of  heather,  burnt  and  black. 
And  so,  I  took  it,  mumbling  o'er  and  o'er, 
In  witlessness  of  weariness, 
And  featherheaded  foolishness: 
A  track  must  lead,  at  some  time,  to  a  door. 
236 


FIRES  237 

And,  trudging  to  this  senseless  tune, 

That  kept  on  drumming  in  my  head, 

I  followed  where  the  pathway  led; 

But,  all  too  soon, 

It  left  the  ling,  and  nigh  was  lost 

Among  the  bent  that  glimmered  grey 

About  my  sore-bewildered  way: 

But  when,  at  length,  it  crossed 

A  brawling  burn,  I  saw,  afar, 

A  cottage  window  light  — 

A  star,  but  no  cold,  heavenly  star  — 

A  warm  red  star  of  welcome  in  the  night. 

Far  off  it  burned  upon  the  black  hillside, 
Sole  star  of  earth  in  all  that  waste  so  wide  — 
A  little  human  lantern  in  the  night, 
Yet  more  to  me  than  all  the  bright 
Unfriendly  stars  of  heaven,  so  cold  and  white. 

And  as  it  dimly  shone, 

Though  towards  it  I  could  only  go 

With  stumbling  step  and  slow, 

It  quickened  in  my  heart  a  kindred  glow; 

And  seemed  to  draw  me  on 

That  last  rough  mile  or  so, 

Now  seen,  now  hidden,  when  the  track 

Dipped  down  into  a  slack, 

And  all  the  earth  again  was  black: 

And  from  the  unseen  fern, 

Grey  ghost  of  all  bewildered  things, 

An  owl  brushed  by  me  on  unrustling  wings, 

And  gave  me  quite  a  turn, 

And  sent  a  shiver  through  my  hair. 

Then,  again,  more  fair 

Flashed  the  friendly  light, 

Beckoning  through  the  night, 

A  golden,  glowing  square, 

Growing  big  and  clearer, 

As  I  drew  slowly  nearer, 

With  eager,  stumbling  feet; 

And  snuffed  the  homely  reek  of  peat: 

And  saw,  above  me,  lone  and  high, 

A  cottage,  dark  against  the  sky  — 

A  candle  shining  on  the  window-sill. 


238  FIRES 

With  thankful  heart,  I  climbed  the  hill; 
And  stood,  at  last,  before 
The  dark  and  unknown  door, 
Wondering  if  food  and  shelter  lay  behind, 
And  what  the  welcome  I  should  find, 
Whether  kindly,  or  unkind: 
But  I  had  scarcely  knocked,  to  learn  my  fate, 
When  the  latch  lifted,  and  the  door  swung  wide 
On  creaking  hinges;  and  I  saw,  inside, 
A  frail  old  woman,  very  worn  and  white, 
Her  body  all  a-tremble  in  the  light, 
Who  gazed  with  strange,  still  eyes  into  the  night, 
As  though  she  did  not  see  me,  but  looked  straight 
Beyond  me,  to  some  unforgotten  past: 
And  I  was  startled  when  she  said  at  last, 
With    strange,    still   voice:     "You're   welcome,    though 
you're  late." 

And  then  an  old  man,  nodding  in  a  chair 

Beside  the  fire,  awoke  with  sleepy  stare, 

And  rose  in  haste,  and  led  her  to  a  seat 

Beside  the  cosy  hearth  of  glowing  peat; 

And  muttered  to  me,  as  he  took  her  hand : 

"  It's  queer,  it's  queer,  that  she,  to-night,  should  stand, 

Who  has  not  stood  alone  for  fifteen  year. 

Though  I  heard  nothing,  she  was  quick  to  hear. 

I  must  have  dozed ;  but  she  has  been  awake, 

And  listening  for  your  footstep  since  daybreak: 

For  she  was  certain  you  would  come  to-day; 

Ay,  she  was  sure,  for  all  that  I  could  say: 

Talk  as  I  might,  she  would  not  go  to  bed, 

Till  you  should  come.     Your  supper  has  been  spread 

This  long  while:  you'll  be  ready  for  your  meat." 

With  that  he  beckoned  me  to  take  a  seat 

Before  the  table,  lifting  from  the  crook 

The  singing  kettle ;  while,  with  far-off  look, 

As  though  she  neither  saw  nor  heard, 

His  wife  sat  gazing  at  the  glowing  peat. 

So,  wondering  sorely,  I  sat  down  to  eat; 
And  yet  she  neither  spoke,  nor  stirred  ; 
But  in  her  high-backed  chair  sat  bolt-upright, 
With  still  grey  eyes;  and  tumbled  hair,  as  white 
As  fairy-cotton,  straggling  o'er  her  brow, 


FIRES  239 

And  hung  in  wisps  about  her  wasted  cheek. 

But  when  I'd  finished,  and  drew  near  the  fire, 

She  suddenly  turned  round  to  speak, 

Her  old  eyes  kindling  with  a  tense  desire. 

Her  words  came  tremblingly:     "  You'll  tell  me  now 

What  news  you  bring  of  him,  my  son?  "     Amazed, 

I  met  that  searching  and  love-famished  look: 

And  then  the  old  man,  seeing  I  was  dazed, 

Made  shift  to  swing  aside  the  kettle-crook; 

And  muttered  in  my  ear: 

"  John  Netherton,  his  name  " :  and  as  I  gazed 

Into  the  peat  that  broke  in  clear  blue  flame, 

Remembrance  flashed  upon  me  with  the  name 

And  I  slipped  back  in  memory  twenty  year  — 

Back  to  the  fo'c'sle  of  a  villainous  boat; 

And  once  again  in  that  hot  hell  I  lay, 

Watching  the  smoky  lantern  duck  and  sway, 

As  though  in  steamy  stench  it  kept  afloat  .  .  . 

The  fiery  fangs  of  fever  at  my  throat; 

And  my  poor  broken  arm,  ill-set, 

A  bar  of  white-hot  iron  at  my  side: 

And,  as  I  lay,  with  staring  eyes  pricked  wide, 

Throughout  eternities  of  agony, 

I  saw  a  big,  black  shadow  stoop  o'er  me ; 

And  felt  a  cool  hand  touch  my  brow,  and  wet 

My  cracking  lips:  and  sank  in  healing  sleep: 

And  when  I  rose  from  that  unfathomed  deep, 

I  saw  the  youngest  of  that  rascal  crew 

Beside  my  bunk;  and  heard  his  name;  jmd  knew 

'Twas  he  who'd  brought  me  ease:  but  soon,  ashore, 

We  parted ;  and  I  never  saw  him  more ; 

Though,  some  while  after,  in  another  place, 

I  heard  he'd  perished  in  a  drunken  brawl  .  .  . 

And  now  the  old  man  touched  me,  to  recall 

My  wandering  thoughts;  and  breathed  again  the  name: 

And  I  looked  up  into  the  mother's  face 

That  burned  before  me  with  grey  eyes  aflame. 

And  so  I  told  her  how  I'd  met  her  son; 

And  of  the  kindly  things  that  he  had  done. 

And  as  I  spoke  her  quivering  spirit  drank 

The  news  that  it  had  thirsted  for  so  long; 

And  for  a  flashing  moment  gay  and  strong 

Life  flamed  in  her  old  eyes,  then  slowly  sank. 


240  FIRES 

"  And  he  was  happy  when  you  saw  him  last?  " 

She  asked:  and  I  was  glad  to  answer,  "  Yes." 

Then  all  sat  dreaming  without  stir  or  sound, 

As  gradually  she  sank  into  the  past, 

With  eyes  that  looked  beyond  all  happiness, 

Beyond  all  earthly  trouble  and  distress, 

Into  some  other  world  than  ours.     The  thread 

That  long  had  held  the  straining  life  earthbound 

Was  loosed  at  last:  her  eyes  grew  dark:  her  head 

Drooped  slowly  on  her  breast ;  and  she  was  dead. 

The  old  man  at  her  side  spoke  not  a  word, 

As  we  arose,  and  bore  her  to  the  bed ; 

And  laid  her  on  the  clean,  white  quilt  at  rest 

With  calm  hands  folded  on  her  quiet  breast. 

And,  hour  by  hour,  he  hardly  even  stirred, 

Crouching  beside  me  in  the  ingle-seat; 

And  staring,  staring  at  the  still  red  glow: 

But,  only  when  the  fire  was  burning  low, 

He  rose  to  bring  fresh  peat ; 

And  muttered  with  dull  voice  and  slow: 

"  This  fire  has  ne'er  burned  out  through  all  these  years 

Not  since  the  hearthstone  first  was  set  — 

And  that  is  nigh  two  hundred  year  ago. 

My  father's  father  built  this  house ;  and  I  ... 

I  thought  my  son  .  .  ."  and  then  he  gave  a  sigh; 

And  as  he  stooped,  his  wizened  cheek  was  wet 

With  slowly-trickling  tears. 

And  now  he  hearkened,  while  an  owl's  keen  cry 

Sang  through  the  silence,  as  it  fluttered  nigh 

The  cottage-window,  dazzled  by  the  light, 

Then  back,  with  fainter  hootings,  into  night. 

But  when  the  fresh  peats  broke  into  a  blaze, 
He  watched  it  with  a  steady,  dry-eyed  gaze ; 
And  spoke  once  more:     "  And  he,  dead,  too! 
You  did  not  tell  her ;  but  I  knew  ...  I  knew !  " 

And  now  came  all  the  tale  of  their  distress: 
Their  only  son,  in  wanton  waywardness, 
Had  left  them,  nearly  thirty  year  ago; 
And  they  had  never  had  a  word  from  him 
In  all  that  time  .  .  .  the  reckless  blow 
Of  his  unkindness  struck  his  mother  low  . 


FIRES  241 

Her  hair,  as  ruddy  as  the  fern 

In  late  September  by  a  moorland  burn, 

Had  shrivelled  rimy-white 

In  one  short  summer's  night: 

And  they  had  looked,  and  looked  for  his  return  .  .  . 

His  mother  set  for  him  at  every  meal, 

And  kept  his  bed  well-aired  .  .  .  the  knife  and  fork 

I'd  used  were  John's  .  .  .  but,  as  all  hope  grew  dim, 

She  sickened,  dwindling  feebler  every  day: 

Though,  when  it  seemed  that  she  must  pass  away, 

She  grew  more  confident  that,  ere  she  passed, 

A  stranger  would  bring  news  to  her,  at  last, 

Of  her  lost  son.     "  And  when  I  woke  in  bed 

Beside  her,  as  the  dawn  was  burning  red, 

She  turned  to  me,  with  sleepless  eyes,  and  said : 

'  The  news  will  come,  to-day.'  " 

He  spoke  no  more:  and  silent  in  my  seat, 

With  burning  eyes  upon  the  burning  peat, 

I  pondered  on  this  strangest  of  strange  things 

That  had  befallen  in  my  vagrant  life: 

And  how,  at  last,  my  idle  wanderings 

Had  brought  me  to  this  old  man  and  his  wife. 

And  as  I  brooded  o'er  the  blaze, 

I  thought  with  awe  of  that  steadfast  desire 

Which,  unto  me  unknown, 

Had  drawn  me  through  long  years,  by  such  strange  ways, 

From  that  dark  fo'c'sle  to  this  cottage-fire. 

And  now,  at  last,  quite  spent,  I  dropped  asleep; 

And  slumbered  long  and  deep : 

And  when  I  waked,  the  peats  were  smouldering  white 

Upon  the  white  hearthstone: 

And  over  heath  and  bent  dawn  kindled  bright 

Beyond  dark  ridges  in  a  rosy  fleece: 

While  from  the  little  window  morning  light 

Fell  on  her  face,  made  holy  with  the  peace 

That  passeth  understanding;  and  was  shed 

In  tender  beams  upon  the  low-bowed  head 

Of  that  old  man,  forlorn  beside  the  bed. 


THE  SHOP 

Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle,  went  the  bell, 
As  I  pushed  in;  and,  once  again,  the  smell 
Of  groceries,  and  news-sheets  freshly  printed, 
That  always  greeted  me  when  I  looked  in 
To  buy  my  evening-paper:  but,  to-night, 
I  wondered  not  to  see  the  well-known  face, 
With  kind,  brown  eyes,  and  ever-friendly  smile, 
Behind  the  counter;  and  to  find  the  place 
Deserted  at  this  hour,  and  not  a  light 
In  either  window.     Waiting  there  a  while, 
Though  wondering  at  what  change  these  changes  hinted, 
I  yet  was  grateful  for  the  quiet  gloom  — 
Lit  only  by  a  gleam  from  the  back-room, 
And,  here  and  there,  a  glint  of  glass  and  tin  — 
So  pleasant,  after  all  the  flare  and  din 
And  hubbub  of  the  foundry:  and  my  eyes, 
Still  tingling  from  the  smoke,  were  glad  to  rest 
Upon  the  ordered  shelves,  so  neatly  dressed 
That,  even  in  the  dusk,  they  seemed  to  tell 
No  little  of  the  hand  that  kept  them  clean, 
And  of  the  head  that  sorted  things  so  well 
That  naught  of  wraste  or  worry  could  be  seen, 
And  kept  all  sweet  with  ever-fresh  supplies. 
And  as  I  thought  upon  her  quiet  way, 
Wondering  what  could  have  got  her,  that  she'd  left 
The  shop,  unlit,  untended,  and  bereft 
Of  her  kind  presence,  overhead  I  heard 
A  tiptoe  creak,  as  though  somebody  stirred, 
W^ith  careful  step,  across  the  upper  floor: 
Then  all  was  silent,  till  the  back-room  door 
Swung  open ;  and  her  husband  hurried  in. 
He  feared  he'd  kept  me,  waiting  in  the  dark; 
And  he  was  sorry:  but  his  wife  who  served 
The  customers  at  night-time  usually  — 
While  he  made  up  the  ledger  after  tea, 
Was  busy,  when  I  ...  Well,  to  tell  the  truth, 
They  were  in  trouble,  for  their  little  son 
Had  come  in  ill  from  school  .  .  .  the  doctor  said 
242 


FIRES  243 

Pneumonia  .  .  .  they'd  been  putting  him  to  bed: 

Perhaps  I'd  heard  them,  moving  overhead, 

For  boards  would  creak,  and  creak,  for  all  your  care. 

They  hoped  the  best;  for  he  was  young;  and  youth 

Could  come  through  much;  and  all  that  could  be  done 

Would  be  ...  then  he  stood,  listening,  quite  unnerved, 

As  though  he  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stair, 

Though  I  heard  nothing:  but  at  my  remark 

About  the  fog  and  sleet,  he  turned, 

And  answered  quickly,  as  there  burned 

In  his  brown  eyes  an  eager  flame: 

The  raw  and  damp  were  much  to  blame: 

If  but  his  son  might  breathe  West-country  air! 

A  certain  Cornish  village  he  could  name 

Was  just  the  place;  if  they  could  send  him  there, 

And  only  for  a  week,  he'd  come  back  stronger  .  .  . 

And  then,  again,  he  listened:  and  I  took 

My  paper,  and  went,  afraid  to  keep  him  longer; 

And  left  him  standing  with  that  haggard  look. 

Next  night,  as  I  pushed  in,  there  was  no  tinkle : 

And,  glancing  up,  I  saw  the  bell  was  gone; 

Although,  in  either  window,  the  gas  shone; 

And  I  was  greeted  by  a  cheery  twinkle 

Of  burnished  tins  and  bottles  from  the  shelves: 

And  now,  I  saw  the  father  busy  there 

Behind  the  counter,  cutting  with  a  string 

A  bar  of  soap  up  for  a  customer, 

With  weary  eyes,  and  jerky,  harassed  air, 

As  if  his  mind  were  hardly  on  the  task: 

And  when  'twas  done,  and  parcelled  up  for  her, 

And  she  had  gone,  he  turned  to  me,  and  said: 

He  thought  that  folks  might  cut  their  soap  themselves  .  .  . 

'Twas  nothing  much  .  .  .  but  any  little  thing, 

At  such  a  time  .  .  .  And,  having  little  doubt 

The  boy  was  worse,  I  did  not  like  to  ask ; 

So  picked  my  paper  up,  and  hurried  out. 

And,  all  next  day,  amid  the  glare  and  clang 
And  clatter  of  the  workshop,  his  words  rang; 
And  kept  on  ringing,  in  my  head  a-ring; 
But  any  little  thing  ...  at  such  a  time  .  .  . 
And  kept  on  chiming  to  the  anvils'  chime: 
But  any  little  thing  ...  at  such  a  time  ... 


244  FIRES 

And  they  were  hissed  and  sputtered  in  the  sizzle 

Of  water  on  hot  iron :  little  thing  .  .  . 

At  such  a  time:  and,  when  I  left,  at  last, 

The  smoke  and  steam ;  and  walked  through  the  cold  drizzle, 

The  lumbering  of  the  'buses  as  they  passed 

Seemed  full  of  it;  and  to  the  passing  feet, 

The  words  kept  patter,  patter,  with  dull  beat. 

I  almost  feared  to  turn  into  their  street, 

Lest  I  should  find  the  blinds  down  in  the  shop: 

And,  more  than  once,  I'd  half-a-mind  to  stop, 

And  buy  my  paper  from  the  yelling  boys, 

Who  darted  all  about  with  such  a  noise 

That  I  half-wondered,  in  a  foolish  way, 

How  they  could  shriek  so,  knowing  that  the  sound 

Must  worry  children,  lying  ill  in  bed  .  .  . 

Then,  thinking  even  they  must  earn  their  bread, 

As  I  earned  mine,  and  scarce  as  noisily! 

I  wandered  on ;  and  very  soon  I  found 

I'd  followed  where  my  thoughts  had  been  all  day, 

And  stood  before  the  shop,  relieved  to  see 

The  gases  burning,  and  no  window-blind 

Of  blank  foreboding.     With  an  easier  mind, 

I  entered  slowly;  and  was  glad  to  find 

The  father  by  the  counter,  'waiting  me, 

With  paper  ready  and  a  cheery  face. 

Yes!  yes!  the  boy  was  better  .  .  .  took  the  turn, 

Last  night,  just  after  I  had  left  the  place. 

He  feared  that  he'd  been  short  and  cross  last  night  .  .  . 

But,  when  a  little  child  was  suffering, 

It  worried  you  .  .  .  and  any  little  thing, 

At  such  a  moment,  made  you  cut  up  rough : 

Though,  now  that  he  was  going  on  all  right  .  .  . 

Well,  he'd  have  patience,  now,  to  be  polite! 

And,  soon  as  ever  he  was  well  enough, 

The  boy  should  go  to  Cornwall  for  a  change  — 

Should  go  to  his  own  home;  for  he,  himself, 

Was  Cornish,  born  and  bred,  his  wife  as  well: 

And  still  his  parents  lived  in  the  old  place  — 

A  little  place,  as  snug  as  snug  could  be  ... 

Where  apple-blossom  dipped  into  the  sea  ... 

Perhaps,  to  strangers'  ears,  that  sounded  strange  — 

But  not  to  any  Cornishman  who  knew 

How  sea  and  land  ran  up  into  each  other; 


FIRES  245 

And  how,  all  round  each  wide,  blue  estuary, 
The  flowers  were  blooming  to  the  waters'  edge : 
You'd  come  on  blue-bells  like  a  sea  of  blue  .  .  . 
But  they  would  not  be  out  for  some  while  yet  .  .  . 
'Twould  be  primroses,  blowing  everywhere, 
Primroses,  and  primroses,  and  primroses  .  .  . 
You'd  never  half-know  what  primroses  were, 
Unless  you'd  seen  them  growing  in  the  West; 
But,  having  seen,  would  never  more  forget. 
Why,  every  bank  and  every  lane  and  hedge 
Was  just  one  blaze  of  yellow ;  and  the  smell, 
When  the  sun  shone  upon  them,  after  wet  .  .  . 
And  his  eyes  sparkled,  as  he  turned  to  sell 
A  penny  loaf  and  half-an-ounce  of  tea 
To  a  poor  child,  who  waited  patiently, 
With  hacking  cough  that  tore  her  hollow  chest: 
And,  as  she  went  out,  clutching  tight  the  change, 
.He  muttered  to  himself:     "It's  strange,  it's  strange 
That  little  ones  should  suffer  so."  .  .  .  The  light 
Had  left  his  eyes:  but  when  he  turned  to  me, 
I  saw  a  flame  leap  in  them,  hot  and  bright. 
I'd  like  to  take  them  all,  he  said,  to-night! 

And,  in  the  workshop,  all  through  the  next  day, 

The  anvils  had  another  tune  to  play  .  .  . 

Primroses,  and  primroses,  and  primroses: 

The  bellows  puffing  out :     It's  strange,  it's  strange 

That  little  ones  should  suffer  so  ... 

And  now,  my  hammer,  at  a  blow: 

I'd  like  to  take  them  all,  to-night! 

And  in  the  clouds  of  steam  and  white-hot  glow 

I  seemed  to  see  primroses  everywhere, 

Primroses,  and  primroses,  and  primroses. 

And  each  night  after  that  I  heard  the  boy 

Was  mending  quickly;  and  would  soon  be  well: 

Till  one  night  I  was  startled  by  the  bell  — 

Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle,  loud  and  clear; 

And  tried  to  hush  it,  lest  the  lad  should  hear. 

But,  when  the  father  saw  me  clutch  the  thing, 

He  said  the  boy  had  missed  it  yesterday; 

And  wondered  why  he  could  not  hear  it  ring; 

And  wanted  it;  and  had  to  have  his  way. 

And  then,  with  brown  eyes  burning  with  deep  joy, 


246  FIRES 

He  told  me,  that  his  son  was  going  West  — 

Was  going  home  .  .  .  the  doctor  thought,  next  week, 

He'd  be  quite  well  enough:  the  way  was  long; 

But  trains  were  quick ;  and  he  would  soon  be  there : 

And  on  the  journey  he'd  have  every  care, 

His  mother  being  with  him  ...  it  was  best, 

That  she  should  go :  for  he  would  find  it  strange, 

The  little  chap,  at  first  .  .  .  she  needed  change  .  .  . 

And,  when  they'd  had  a  whiff  of  Western  air ! 

'Twould  cost  a  deal ;  and  there  was  naught  to  spare : 

But,  what  was  money,  if  you  hadn't  health : 

And,  what  more  could  you  buy,  if  you'd  the  wealth  .  . 

Yes!  'twould  be  lonely  for  himself,  and  rough; 

Though,  on  the  whole,  he'd  manage  well  enough: 

He'd  have  a  lot  to  do :  and  there  was  naught 

Like  work  to  keep  folk  cheerful:  when  the  hand 

Was  busy,  you  had  little  time  for  thought; 

And  thinking  was  the  mischief  .  .  .  and  'twas  grand 

To  know  that  they'd  be  happy.     Then  the  bell 

Went  tinkle-tinkle;  and  he  turned  to  sell. 

One  night  he  greeted  me  with  face  that  shone, 

Although  the  eyes  were  wistful ;  they  were  gone  — 

Had  gone  this  morning,  he  was  glad  to  say: 

And,  though  'twas  sore  work,  setting  them  away, 

Still,  'twas  the  best  for  them  .  .  .  and  they  would  be 

Already  in  the  cottage  by  the  sea  ... 

He  spoke  no  more  of  them ;  but  turned  his  head ; 

And  said  he  wondered  if  the  price  of  bread  .  .  . 

And,  as  I  went  again  into  the  night, 

I  saw  his  eyes  were  glistening  in  the  light. 

And,  two  nights  after  that,  he'd  got  a  letter: 
And  all  was  well :  the  boy  was  keeping  better ; 
And  was  as  happy  as  a  child  could  be, 
All  day  with  the  primroses  and  the  sea, 
And  pigs!     Of  all  the  wonders  of  the  West, 
His  mother  wrote,  he  liked  the  pigs  the  best. 
And  now  the  father  laughed  until  the  tears 
Were  in  his  eyes,  and  chuckled :     Ay !  he  knew ! 
Had  he  not  been  a  boy  there  once,  himself  ? 
He'd  liked  pigs,  too,  when  he  was  his  son's  years. 
And  then,  he  reached  a  half-loaf  from  the  shelf; 
And  twisted  up  a  farthing's  worth  of  tea, 


FIRES  247 

And  farthing's  worth  of  sugar,  for  the  child, 
The  same  poor  child  who  waited  patiently, 
Still  shaken  by  a  hacking,  racking  cough. 

And  all  next  day  the  anvils  rang  with  jigs: 

The  bellows  roared  and  rumbled  with  loud  laughter, 

Until  it  seemed  the  workshop  had  gone  wild, 

And  it  would  echo,  echo,  ever  after 

The  tune  the  hammers  tinkled  on  and  off, 

A  silly  tune  of  primroses  and  pigs  .  .  . 

Of  all  the  wonders  of  the  West 

He  liked  the  pigs,  he  liked  the  pigs  the  best! 

Next  night,  as  I  went  in,  I  caught 

A  strange,  fresh  smell.     The  postman  had  just  brought 

A  precious  box  from  Cornwall,  and  the  shop 

Was  lit  with  primroses,  that  lay  atop 

A  Cornish  pasty,  and  a  pot  of  cream : 

And  as,  with  gentle  hands,  the  father  lifted 

The  flowers  his  little  son  had  plucked  for  him, 

He  stood  a  moment  in  a  far-off  dream, 

As  though  in  glad  remembrances  he  drifted 

On  Western  seas:  and,  as  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

He  stooped,  and  buried  them  in  deep,  sweet  bloom: 

Till,  hearing  once  again  the  poor  child's  cough, 

He  served  her  hurriedly,  and  sent  her  off, 

Quite  happily,  with  thin  hands  filled  with  flowers. 

And  as  I  followed  to  the  street,  the  gloom 

Was  starred  with  primroses ;  and  many  hours 

The  strange,  shy  flickering  surprise 

Of  that  child's  keen,  enchanted  eyes 

Lit  up  my  heart,  and  brightened  my  dull  room. 

Then,  many  nights  the  foundry  kept  me  late 

With  overtime;  and  I  was  much  too  tired 

To  go  round  by  the  shop ;  but  made  for  bed 

As  straight  as  I  could  go:  until  one  night 

We'd  left  off  earlier,  though  'twas  after  eight, 

I  thought  I'd  like  some  news  about  the  boy 

I  found  the  shop  untended ;  and  the  bell 

Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkled  all  in  vain. 

And  then  I  saw,  through  the  half-curtained  pane, 

The  back-room  was  a  very  blaze  of  joy: 

And  knew  the  mother  and  son  had  come  safe  back. 


248  FIRES 

And  as  I  slipped  away,  now  all  was  well, 
I  heard  the  boy  shriek  out,  in  shrill  delight: 
"  And,  father,  all  the  little  pigs  were  black !  " 


FLANNAN  ISLE 

"  Though  three  men  dwell  on  Flannan  Isle 
To  keep  the  lamp  alight, 
As  we  steered  under  the  lee,  we  caught 
No  glimmer  through  the  night." 

A  passing  ship  at  dawn  had  brought 
The  news ;  and  quickly  we  set  sail, 
To  find  out  what  strange  thing  might  ail 
The  keepers  of  the  deep-sea  light. 

The  Winter  day  broke  blue  and  bright, 
With  glancing  sun  and  glancing  spray, 
While  o'er  the  swell  our  boat  made  way, 
As  gallant  as  a  gull  in  flight. 

But  as  we  neared  the  lonely  Isle, 

And  looked  up  at  the  naked  height, 

And  saw  the  lighthouse  towering  white, 

With  blinded  lantern,  that  all  night 

Had  never  shot  a  spark 

Of  comfort  through  the  dark, 

So  ghostly  in  the  cold  sunlight 

It  seemed,  that  we  were  struck  the  while 

With  wonder  all  too  dread  for  words. 

And  as  into  the  tiny  creek 

We  stole  beneath  the  hanging  crag, 

We  saw  three  queer,  black,  ugly  birds  — 

Too  big,  by  far,  in  my  belief, 

For  cormorant  or  shag  — 

Like  seamen  sitting  bolt-upright 

Upon  a  half -tide  reef : 

But,  as  we  neared,  they  plunged  from  sight, 

Without  a  sound,  or  spurt  of  white. 

And  still  too  mazed  to  speak, 
We  landed;  and  made  fast  the  boat; 
249 


250  FIRES 

And  climbed  the  track  in  single  file, 

Each  wishing  he  were  safe  afloat, 

On  any  sea,  however  far, 

So  it  be  far  from  Flannan  Isle : 

And  still  we  seemed  to  climb,  and  climb, 

As  though  we'd  lost  all  count  of  time, 

And  so  must  climb  for  evermore. 

Yet,  all  too  soon,  we  reached  the  door  — 

The  black,  sun-blistered  lighthouse-door, 

That  gaped  for  us  ajar. 

As,  on  the  threshold,  for  a  spell, 

We  paused,  we  seemed  to  breathe  the  smell 

Of  limewash  and  of  tar, 

Familiar  as  our  daily  breath, 

As  though  'twere  some  strange  scent  of  death: 

And  so,  yet  wondering,  side  by  side, 

We  stood  a  moment,  still  tongue-tied : 

And  each  with  black  foreboding  eyed 

The  door,  ere  we  should  fling  it  wide, 

To  leave  the  sunlight  for  the  gloom: 

Till,  plucking  courage  up,  at  last, 

Hard  on  each  other's  heels  we  passed, 

Into  the  living-room. 

Yet,  as  we  crowded  through  the  door, 

We  only  saw  a  table,  spread 

For  dinner,  meat  and  cheese  and  bread; 

But,  all  untouched ;  and  no  one  there : 

As  though,  when  they  sat  down  to  eat, 

Ere  they  could  even  taste, 

Alarm  had  come;  and  they  in  haste 

Had  risen  and  left  the  bread  and  meat: 

For  at  the  table-head  a  chair 

Lay  tumbled  on  the  floor. 

We  listened ;  but  we  only  heard 
The  feeble  cheeping  of  a  bird 
That  starved  upon  its  perch: 
And,  listening  still,  without  a  word, 
We  set  about  our  hopeless  search. 

We  hunted  high,  we  hunted  low; 
And  soon  ransacked  the  empty  house; 


FIRES  251 

Then  o'er  the  Island,  to  and  fro, 

We  ranged,  to  listen  and  to  look 

In  every  cranny,  cleft  or  nook 

That  might  have  hid  a  bird  or  mouse : 

But,  though  we  searched  from  shore  to  shore, 

We  found  no  sign  in  any  place : 

And  soon  again  stood  face  to  face 

Before  the  gaping  door : 

And  stole  into  the  room  once  more 

As  frightened  children  steal. 

Ay:  though  we  hunted  high  and  low, 

And  hunted  everywhere, 

Of  the  three  men's  fate  we  found  no  trace 

Of  any  kind  in  any  place, 

But  a  door  ajar,  and  an  untouched  meal, 

And  an  overtoppled  chair. 

And  as  we  listened  in  the  gloom 

Of  that  forsaken  living-room  — 

A  chill  clutch  on  our  breath  — 

We  thought  how  ill-chance  came  to  all 

Who  kept  the  Flannan  Light: 

And  how  the  rock  had  been  the  death 

Of  many  a  likely  lad: 

How  six  had  come  to  a  sudden  end, 

And  three  had  gone  stark  mad : 

And  one  whom  we'd  all  known  as  friend 

Had  leapt  from  the  lantern  one  still  night, 

And  fallen  dead  by  the  lighthouse  wall : 

And  long  we  thought 

On  the  three  we  sought, 

And  of  what  might  yet  befall. 

Like  curs  a  glance  has  brought  to  heel, 

W^e  listened,  flinching  there: 

And  looked,  and  looked,  on  the  untouched  meal, 

And  the  overtoppled  chair. 

We  seemed  to  stand  for  an  endless  while, 
Though  still  no  word  was  said, 
Three  men  alive  on  Flannan  Isle, 
Who  thought  on  three  men  dead. 


THE  BROTHERS 

All  morning  they  had  quarrelled,  as  they  worked, 

A  little  off  their  fellows,  in  the  pit: 

Dick  growled  at  Robert ;  Robert  said  Dick  shirked : 

And  when  the  roof,  dropt  more  than  they  had  reckoned, 

Began  to  crack  and  split, 

Though  both  rushed  like  a  shot  to  set 

The  pit-props  in  their  places, 

Each  said  the  other  was  to  blame, 

When,  all  secure,  with  flushed  and  grimy  faces, 

They  faced  each  other  for  a  second. 

All  morning  they  had  quarrelled :  yet, 

Neither  had  breathed  her  name. 

Again  they  turned  to  work: 

And  in  the  dusty  murk 

Of  that  black  gallery 

Which  ran  out  three  miles  underneath  the  sea, 

There  was  no  sound  at  all, 

Save  whispering  creak  of  roof  and  wall, 

And  crack  of  coal,  and  tap  of  pick, 

And  now  and  then  a  rattling  fall : 

While  Robert  worked  on  steadily,  but  Dick, 

In  fits  and  starts,  with  teeth  clenched  tight, 

And  dark  eyes  flashing  in  his  lamp's  dull  light. 

And  when  he  paused,  nigh  spent,  to  wipe  the  sweat 
From  off  his  dripping  brow :  and  Robert  turned 
To  fling  some  idle  jibe  at  him,  the  spark 
Of  anger,  smouldering  in  him,  flared  and  burned  — 
Though  all  his  body  quivered,  wringing-wet  — 
Till  that  black  hole 
To  him  blazed  red, 
As  if  the  very  coal 

Had  kindled  underfoot  and  overhead : 
Then,  gripping  tight  his  pick, 
He  rushed  upon  his  brother: 
But  Robert,  turning  quick, 
Leapt  up,  and  now  they  faced  each  other. 
252 


FIRES  253 

They  faced  each  other :  Dick  with  arm  upraised, 

In  act  to  strike,  and  murder  in  his  eyes  .  .  . 

When,  suddenly,  with  noise  of  thunder, 

The  earth  shook  round  them,  rumbling  o'er  and  under ; 

And  Dick  saw  Robert,  lying  at  his  feet : 

As,  close  behind,  the  gallery  crashed  in : 

And  almost  at  his  heel,  earth  gaped  asunder. 

By  black  disaster  dazed, 

His  wrath  died;  and  he  dropped  the  pick; 

And  staggered,  dizzily  and  terror-sick. 

But  when  the  dust  and  din 

Had  settled  to  a  stillness,  dread  as  death, 

And  he  once  more  could  draw  his  breath, 

He  gave  a  little  joyful  shout 

To  find  the  lamps  had  not  gone  out. 

And  on  his  knees  he  fell 

Beside  his  brother,  buried  in  black  dust: 

And,  full  of  tense  misgiving, 

He  lifted  him,  and  thrust 

A  knee  beneath  his  head ;  and  cleared ' 

The  dust  from  mouth  and  nose :  but  could  not  tell 

Awhile  if  he  were  dead  or  living. 

Too  fearful  to  know  what  he  feared, 

He  fumbled  at  the  open  shirt, 

And  felt  till  he  could  feel  the  heart, 

Still  beating  with  a  feeble  beat : 

And  then  he  saw  the  closed  lids  part, 

And  saw  the  nostrils  quiver; 

And  knew  his  brother  lived,  though  sorely  hurt. 

Again  he  staggered  to  his  feet, 

And  fetched  his  water-can,  and  wet 

The  ashy  lips,  and  bathed  the  brow, 

Until  his  brother  sat  up  with  a  shiver, 

And  gazed  before  him  with  a  senseless  stare 

And  dull  eyes  strangely  set. 

Too  well  Dick  knew  that  now 

They  must  not  linger  there, 

Cut  off  from  all  their  mates,  to  be  o'ertaken 

In  less  than  no  time  by  the  deadly  damp : 

So,  picking  up  his  lamp, 

He  made  his  brother  rise; 

Then  took  him  by  the  arm, 


254  FIRES 

And  shook  him,  till  he'd  shaken 

An  inkling  of  the  danger  and  alarm 

Into  those  dull,  still  eyes: 

Then  dragged  him,  and  half -carried  him,  in  haste, 

To  reach  the  airway,  where  'twould  still  be  sweet 

When  all  the  gallery  was  foul  with  gas : 

But,  soon  as  they  had  reached  it,  they  were  faced 

By  a  big  fall  of  roof  they  could  not  pass ; 

And  found  themselves  cut  off  from  all  retreat, 

On  every  hand,  by  that  black  shining  wall; 

With  naught  to  do  but  sit  and  wait 

Till  rescue  came,  if  rescue  came  at  all, 

And  did  not  come  too  late. 

And,  in  the  fresher  airway,  light  came  back 

To  Robert's  eyes,  although  he  never  spoke: 

And  not  a  sound  the  deathly  quiet  broke, 

As  they  sat  staring  at  that  wall  of  black  — 

As,  in  the  glimmer  of  the  dusky  lamp, 

They  sat  and  wondered,  wondered  if  the  damp  — 

The  stealthy  after-damp  that  creeping,  creeping, 

Takes  strong  lads  by  the  throat,  and  drops  them  sleeping, 

To  wake  no  more  for  any  woman's  weeping  — 

Would  steal  upon  them,  ere  the  rescue  came.  .  .  . 

And  if  the  rescuers  would  find  them  sitting, 

Would  find  them  sitting  cold  .  .  . 

Then,  as  they  sat  and  wondered,  like  a  flame 

One  thought  burned  up  both  hearts: 

Still,  neither  breathed  her  name. 

And  now  their  thoughts  dropped  back  into  the  pit, 

And  through  the  league-long  gallery  went  flitting 

With  speed  no  fall  could  hold: 

They  wondered  how  their  mates  had  fared : 

If  they'd  been  struck  stone-dead, 

Or  if  they  shared 

Like  fate  with  them,  or  reached  the  shaft, 

Unhurt,  and  only  scared, 

Before  disaster  overtook  them: 

And  then,  although  their  courage  ne'er  forsook  them, 

They  wondered  once  again  if  they  must  sit 

Awaiting  death  .  .  .  but  knowing  well 

That  even  for  a  while  to  dwell 

On  such  like  thoughts  will  drive  a  strong  man  daft: 


FIRES  255 

They  shook  themselves  until  their  thoughts  ran  free 

Along  the  drift,  and  clambered  in  the  cage ; 

And  in  a  trice  were  shooting  up  the  shaft : 

But  when  their  thoughts  had  come  to  the  pithead, 

And  found  the  fearful  people  gathered  there, 

Beneath  the  noonday  sun, 

Bright-eyed  with  terror,  blinded  by  despair, 

Dick  rose,  and  with  his  chalk  wrote  on  the  wall, 

This  message  for  their  folk : 

"  We  can't  get  any  further,  12,  noonday  " — 

And  signed  both  names;  and,  when  he'd  done, 

Though  neither  of  them  spoke, 

They  both  seemed  easier  in  a  way, 

Now  that  they'd  left  a  word, 

Though  nothing  but  a  scrawl. 

And  silent  still  they  sat, 

And  never  stirred: 

And  Dick's  thoughts  dwelt  on  this  and  that: 

How,  far  above  their  heads,  upon  the  sea 

The  sun  was  shining  merrily, 

And  in  its  golden  glancing 

The  windy  waves  were  dancing: 

And  how  he'd  slipt  that  morning  on  his  way : 

And  how  on  Friday,  when  he  drew  his  pay, 

He'd  buy  a  blanket  for  his  whippet,  Nell ; 

He  felt  dead  certain  she  would  win  the  race, 

On  Saturday  .  .  .  though  you  could  never  tell, 

There  were  such  odds  against  her  .  .  .  but  his  face 

Lit  up  as  though,  even  now,  he  saw  her  run, 

A  little  slip  of  lightning,  in  the  sun: 

While  Robert's  thoughts  were  ever  on  the  match 

His  team  was  booked  to  play  on  Saturday ; 

He  placed  the  field,  and  settled  who  should  play 

In  Will  Burn's  stead ;  for  Will  he  had  a  doubt 

Was  scarcely  up  to  form,  although  .  .  . 

Just  then,  the  lamp  went  slowly  out. 

Still,  neither  stirred, 

Nor  spoke  a  word ; 

Though  cither's  breath  came  quickly,  with  a  catch. 

And  now  again  one  thought 


256  FIRES 

Set  both  their  hearts  afire 

In  one  fierce  flame 

Of  quick  desire: 

Though  neither  breathed  her  name. 

Then  Dick  stretched  out  his  hand ;  and  caught 
His  brother's  arm;  and  whispered  in  his  ear: 
"  Bob,  lad,  there's  naught  to  fear  .  .  . 
And,  when  we're  out,  lad,  you  and  she  shall  wed." 

Bob  gripped  Dick's  hand ;  and  then  no  more  was  said, 

As,  slowly,  all  about  them  rose 

The  deadly  after-damp ;  but  close 

They  sat  together,  hand  in  hand. 

Then  their  minds  wandered ;  and  Dick  seemed  to  stand 

And  shout  till  he  was  hoarse 

To  speed  his  winning  whippet  down  the  course  .  .  . 

And  Robert,  with  the  ball 

Secure  within  his  oxter  charged  ahead 

Straight  for  the  goal,  and  none  could  hold, 

Though  many  tried  a  fall. 

Then  dreaming  they  were  lucky  boys  in  bed 

Once  more,  and  lying  snugly  by  each  other : 

Dick,  with  his  arms  clasped  tight  about  his  brother, 

Whispered  with  failing  breath 

Into  the  ear  of  death : 

"  Come,  Robert,  cuddle  closer,  lad,  it's  cold." 


THE  BLIND  ROWER 

And  since  he  rowed  his  father  home, 

His  hand  has  never  touched  an  oar. 

All  day  he  wanders  on  the  shore, 

And  hearkens  to  the  swishing  foam. 

Though  blind  from  birth,  he  still  could  row 

As  well  as  any  lad  with  sight ; 

And  knew  strange  things  that  none  may  know 

Save  those  who  live  without  the  light. 

When  they  put  out  that  Summer  eve 
To  sink  the  lobster-pots  at  sea, 
The  sun  was  crimson  in  the  sky; 
And  not  a  breath  was  in  the  sky, 
The  brooding,  thunder-laden  sky, 
That,  heavily  and  wearily, 
Weighed  down  upon  the  waveless  sea 
That  scarcely  seemed  to  heave. 

The  pots  were  safely  sunk ;  and  then 

The  father  gave  the  word  for  home : 

He  took  the  tiller  in  his  hand, 

And,  in  his  heart  already  home, 

He  brought  her  nose  round  towards  the  land, 

To  steer  her  straight  for  home. 

He  never  spoke, 

Nor  stirred  again: 

A  sudden  stroke, 

And  he  lay  dead, 

With  staring  eyes,  and  lips  of  lead. 

The  son  rowed  on,  and  nothing  feared, : 
And  sometimes,  merrily, 
He  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  sang, 
Both  high  and  low, 
And  loud  and  sweet: 
For  he  was  ever  gay  at  sea, 
257 


258  FIRES 

And  ever  glad  to  row, 

And  rowed  as  only  blind  men  row: 

And  little  did  the  blind  lad  know 

That  death  was  at  his  feet: 

For  still  he  thought  his  father  steered ; 

Nor  knew  that  he  was  all  alone 

With  death  upon  the  open  sea. 

So  merrily,  he  rowed,  and  sang: 

And,  strangely  on  the  silence  rang 

That  lonely  melody, 

As,  through  the  livid,  brooding  gloam, 

By  rock  and  reef,  he  rowed  for  home  — 

The  blind  man  rowed  the  dead  man  home. 

But,  as  they  neared  the  shore, 

He  rested  on  his  oar: 

And,  wondering  that  his  father  kept 

So  very  quiet  in  the  stern, 

He  laughed,  and  asked  him  if  he  slept ; 

And  vowed  he  heard  him  snore  just  now. 

Though,  when  his  father  spoke  no  word, 

A  sudden  fear  upon  him  came: 

And,  crying  on  his  father's  name, 

With  flinching  heart,  he  heard 

The  water  lapping  on  the  shore ; 

And  all  his  blood  ran  cold,  to  feel 

The  shingle  grate  beneath  the  keel: 

And  stretching  over  towards  the  stern, 

His  knuckle  touched  the  dead  man's  brow. 

But  help  was  near  at  hand; 

And  safe  he  came  to  land: 

Though  none  has  ever  known 

How  he  rowed  in,  alone, 

And  never  touched  a  reef. 

Some  say  they  saw  the  dead  man  steer  — 

The  dead  man  steer  the  blind  man  home  — 

Though,  when  they  found  him  dead, 

His  hand  was  cold  as  lead. 

So,  ever  restless,  to  and  fro, 

In  every  sort  of  weather, 

The  blind  lad  wanders  on  the  shore, 

And  hearkens  to  the  foam. 


FIRES  259 


His  hand  has  never  touched  an  oar, 
Since  they  came  home  together  — 
The  blind,  who  rowed  his  father  home  — 
The  dead,  who  steered  his  blind  son  home. 


THE  FLUTE 

"Good-night!"  he  sang  out  cheerily: 
"Good-night!"  and  yet  again:  "Good-night! 

And  I  was  gay  that  night  to  be 
Once  more  in  my  clean  countryside, 
Among  the  windy  hills  and  wide. 
Six  days  of  city  slush  and  mud, 
Of  hooting  horn,  and  spattering  wheel, 
Made  me  rejoice  again  to  feel 
The  tingling  frost  that  fires  the  blood, 
And  sets  life  burning  keen  and  bright; 
And  down  the  ringing  road  to  stride 
The  eager  swinging  stride  that  braces 
The  straining  thews  from  hip  to  heel : 
To  breathe  again  the  wind  that  sweeps 
Across  the  grassy,  Northern  steeps, 
From  crystal  deeps  and  starry  spaces. 

And  I  was  glad  again  to  hear 
The  old  man's  greeting  of  good  cheer: 
For  every  night  for  many  a  year 
At  that  same  corner  we  had  met, 
Summer  and  Winter,  dry  and  wet: 
And  though  I  never  once  had  heard 
The  old  man  speak  another  word, 
His  cheery  greeting  at  the  bend 
Seemed  like  the  welcome  of  a  friend. 

But,  as  we  neared  to-night,  somehow, 
I  felt  that  he  would  stop  and  speak  — 
Though  he  went  by:  and  when  I  turned, 
I  saw  him  standing  in  the  road, 
And  looking  back,  with  hand  to  brow, 
As  if  to  shade  old  eyes,  grown  weak 
Awaiting  the  long  sleep  they'd  earned: 
Though,  as  again  towards  him  I  strode, 
A  friendly  light  within  them  burned. 
260 


FIRES  261 

And  then,  as  I  drew  nigh,  he  spoke 
With  shaking  head,  and  voice  that  broke: 
"I've  missed  you  these  last  nights,"  he  said: 
"  And  I  have  not  so  many  now 
That  I  can  miss  friends  easily  .  .  . 
Ay:  friends  grow  scarce,  as  you  grow  old: 
And  roads  are  rough :  and  winds  are  cold : 
And  when  you  feel  you're  losing  hold, 
Life  does  not  go  too  merrily." 
And  then  he  stood  with  nodding  head, 
And  spoke  no  more.     And  so  I  told 
How  I  had  been,  six  days  and  nights, 
Exiled  from  pleasant  sounds  and  sights. 
And  now,  as  though  my  voice  had  stirred 
His  heart  to  speech,  he  told  right  out, 
With  quickening  eye  and  quavering  word, 
The  things  I  care  to  hear  about, 
The  little  things  that  make  up  life: 
How  he'd  been  lonesome,  since  his  wife 
Had  died,  some  thirty  year  ago: 
And  how  he  trudged  three  mile  or  so 
To  reach  the  farmstead  where  he  worked, 
And  three  mile  back  to  his  own  door  .  .  . 
For  he  dwelt  outby  on  the  moor: 
And  every  day  the  distance  irked 
More  sorely  still  his  poor,  old  bones; 
And  all  the  road  seemed  strewn  with  stones 
To  trip  you  up,  when  you  were  old  — 
When  you  were  old,  and  friends  were  few: 
How,  since  the  farmstead  had  been  sold, 
The  master  and  the  men  were  new, 
All  save  himself;  and  they  were  young; 
And  Mistress  had  a  raspy  tongue: 
So,  often,  he  would  hardly  speak 
A  friendly  word  from  week  to  week 
With  any  soul.     Old  friends  had  died, 
Or  else  had  quit  the  countryside: 
And  since  his  wife  was  taken,  he 
Had  lived  alone,  this  thirty  year: 
And  there  were  few  who  cared  to  hear 
An  old  man's  jabber  .  .  .  and  too  long 
He'd  kept  me,  standing  in  the  cold, 
With  his  long  tongue,  and  such  a  song 
About  himself!     And  I  would  be  . 


262  FIRES 

I  put  my  arm  through  his;  and  turned 
To  go  upon  his  way  with  him: 
And  once  again  that  warm  light  burned 
In  those  old  eyes,  so  weak  and  dim : 
While,  with  thin,  piping  voice,  he  told 
How  much  it  meant  to  him  each  night 
To  change  a  kindly  word  with  me: 
To  think  that  he'd  at  least  one  friend 
Who'd  maybe  miss  him,  in  the  end. 

Then,  as  we  walked,  he  said  no  more : 
And,  silent,  in  the  starry  light, 
Across  the  wide,  sweet-smelling  bent, 
Between  the  grass  and  stars  we  went 
In  quiet,  friendly  company: 
And,  all  the  way,  we  only  heard 
A  chirrup  where  some  partridge  stirred, 
And  ran  before  us  through  the  grass, 
To  hide  his  head  till  we  should  pass. 

At  length  we  reached  the  cottage-door: 
But  when  I  stopped,  and  turned  to  go, 
His  words  came  falteringly  and  slow: 
If  I  would  step  inside,  and  rest, 
I'd  be  right  welcome:  not  a  guest 
Had  crossed  his  threshold,  thirty  year  .  .  . 
He'd  naught  but  bread  and  cheese  and  beer 
To  offer  me  ...  but,  I'd  know  best  .  .  . 

He  spoke  with  hand  upon  the  latch; 
And  when  I  answered,  opened  wide 
The  cottage-door,  and  stepped  inside ; 
And,  as  I  followed,  struck  a  match, 
And  lit  a  tallow-dip:  and  stirred 
The  banked-up  peats  into  a  glow: 
And  then  with  shuffling  step  and  slow 
He  moved  about:  and  soon  had  set 
Two  mugs  of  beer,  and  bread  and  cheese: 
And  while  we  made  a  meal  off  these, 
The  old  man  never  spoke  a  word ; 
But,  brooding  in  the  ingle-seat, 
With  eyes  upon  the  kindling  peat, 
He  seemed  a  while  to  quite  forget 
He  was  not  sitting  by  himself 


FIRES  263 

To-night,  like  any  other  night; 
When,  as  in  the  dim  candle-light 
I  glanced  around  me,  with  surprise 
I  saw  upon  the  rafter-shelf 
A  flute,  nigh  hidden  in  the  shade. 

And  when  I  asked  him  if  he  played, 

The  light  came  back  into  his  eyes: 

Ay,  ay,  he  sometimes  piped  a  bit, 

But  not  so  often  since  she  died. 

And  then,  as  though  old  memories  lit 

His  poor,  old  heart,  and  made  it  glad, 

He  told  how  he,  when  quite  a  lad, 

Had  taught  himself:  and  they  would  play 

On  penny  whistles  all  the  day  — 

He  and  the  miller's  son,  beside 

The  millpool,  chirping  all  they  knew, 

Till  they  could  whistle  clean  and  true: 

And  how,  when  old  enough  to  earn, 

They  both  saved  up  to  buy  a  flute ; 

And  they  had  played  it,  turn  for  turn: 

But  Jake  was  dead,  this  long  while  back  .  .  . 

Ah!  if  I'd  only  heard  him  toot, 

I'd  know  what  music  meant.     Ay,  ay  ... 

He'd  play  me  something,  by-and-bye; 

Though  he  was  naught  to  Jake  .  .  .  and  now 

His  breath  was  scant,  and  fingering  slack  .  .  . 

He  used  to  play  to  her  at  night 

The  melodies  that  she  liked  best, 

While  she  worked  on :  she'd  never  rest 

By  daylight,  or  by  candle-light  .  .  . 

And  then,  with  hand  upon  his  brow, 

He  brooded,  quiet  in  his  chair, 

With  eyes  upon  the  red  peat-glare ; 

Until,  at  length,  he  roused  himself, 

And  reached  the  flute  down  from  the  shelf; 

And,  carrying  it  outside  the  door, 

I  saw  him  take  a  can,  and  pour 

Fresh  water  through  the  instrument, 

To  make  it  sweet  of  tone,  he  said. 

Then  in  his  seat,  so  old  and  bent, 

With  kindling  eyes  and  swaying  head, 

He  played  the  airs  he  used  to  play 

To  please  his  wife,  before  she  died. 


264  FIRES 

And  as  I  watched  his  body  sway 

In  time  and  tune,  from  side  to  side  — 

So  happy,  just  to  play,  and  please 

With  old  familiar  melodies  — 

His  eyes  grew  brighter  and  more  bright, 

As  though  they  saw  some  well-loved  sight: 

And,  following  his  happy  gaze, 

I  turned,  and  saw,  without  amaze, 

A  woman  standing,  young  and  fair, 

With  hazel  eyes,  and  thick  brown  hair 

Brushed  smoothly  backward  from  the  brow, 

Beside  the  table  that  but  now, 

Save  for  the  empty  mugs,  was  bare. 

Upon  it  she  had  spread  a  sheet, 

And  stood  there,  ironing  a  shirt, 

Her  husband's,  as  he  played  to  her 

Her  favourite  tunes,  so  old  and  sweet. 

I  watched  her  move  with  soundless  stir ; 

Then  stand  with  listening  eyes,  and  hold 

The  iron  near  her  glowing  cheek, 

Lest  it,  too  hot,  should  do  some  hurt, 

And  she,  so  careful  not  to  burn 

The  well-darned  shirt,  so  worn  and  old. 

Then,  something  seemed  to  make  me  turn 

To  look  on  the  old  man  again: 

And,  as  I  looked,  the  playing  stopped; 

And  now  I  saw  that  he  had  dropped 

Into  his  brooding  mood  once  more, 

W^ith  eyes  again  grown  dull  and  weak. 

He  seemed  the  oldest  of  old  men 

Who  grope  through  life  with  sight  wyorn  dim; 

And,  even  as  I  looked  at  him, 

Too  full  of  tender  awe  to  speak, 

I  knew  once  more  the  board  was  bare, 

With  no  young  woman  standing  there 

With  hazel  eyes  and  thick,  brown  hair. 

And  so,  at  last,  I  rose,  and  took 

His  hand:  and  as  he  clasped  mine  tight, 

I  saw  again  that  friendly  look 

Fill  his  old  weary  eyes  with  light, 

And  wish  me,  without  words,  good-night. 

And  in  my  heart,  that  look  glowed  bright 

Till  I  reached  home  across  the  moor. 


FIRES  265 

And,  at  the  corner  of  the  lane, 
Next  night,  I  heard  the  old  voice  cry 
In  greeting,  as  I  struggled  by, 
Head-down  against  the  wind  and  rain. 
And  so  each  night,  until  one  day, 
His  master  chanced  across  my  way: 
But,  when  I  spoke  of  him,  he  said : 
Did  I  not  know  the  man  was  dead, 
And  had  been  dead  a  week  or  so? 
One  morn  he'd  not  turned  up  to  work; 
And  never  having  known  him  shirk; 
And  hearing  that  he  lived  alone; 
He  thought  it  best  himself  to  go 
And  see  what  ailed :  and  coming  there, 
He  found  the  old  man  in  his  chair, 
Stone-dead  beside  the  cold  hearthstone. 
It  must  be  full  a  week,  or  more  .  .  . 
Ay,  just  two  weeks,  come  Saturday, 
He'd  found  him ;  but  he  must  have  died 
O'ernight —  (the  night  I  heard  him  play!) 
And  they  had  found,  dropt  by  his  side, 
A  broken  flute  upon  the  floor. 

Yet,  every  night,  his  greeting  still 

At  that  same  corner  of  the  hill, 

Summer  and  Winter,  wet  or  dry, 

'Neath  cloud,  or  moon,  or  cold  starlight, 

Is  waiting  there  to  welcome  me: 

And  ever  as  I  hurry  by, 

The  old  voice  sings  out  cheerily: 

"  Good-night!  "  and  yet  again,  "  Good-night!  " 


THE  CRANE 

The  biggest  crane  on  earth,  it  lifts 

Two  hundred  ton  more  easily 

Than  I  can  lift  my  heavy  head : 

And  when  it  swings,  the  whole  world  shifts, 

Or  so,  at  least,  it  seems  to  me, 

As,  day  and  night,  adream  I  lie 

Upon  my  crippled  back  in  bed, 

And  watch  it  up  against  the  sky. 

My  mother,  hunching  in  her  chair, 
Day-long,  and  stitching  trousers  there  — 
At  three-and-three  the  dozen  pair  .  .  . 
She'd  sit  all  night,  and  stitch  for  me, 
Her  son,  if  I  could  only  wear  .  .  . 
She  never  lifts  her  eyes  to  see 
The  big  crane  swinging  through  the  air. 

But  though  she  has  no  time  to  talk, 

She  always  cleans  the  window-pane, 

That  I  may  see  it  clear  and  plain : 

And  as  I  watch  it  move,  I  walk 

Who  never  walked  in  all  my  days  .  .  . 

And  often,  as  I  dream  agaze, 

I'm  up  and  out:  and  it  is  I 

Who  swing  the  crane  across  the  sky. 

Right  up  above  the  wharf  I  stand, 
And  touch  a  lever  with  my  hand, 
To  lift  a  bunch  of  girders  high, 
A  truck  of  coal,  a  field  of  grain 
In  sacks,  a  bundle  of  big  trees, 
Or  beasts,  too  frightened  in  my  grip 
To  wonder  at  their  skiey  trip: 
And  then  I  let  the  long  arm  dip 
Without  a  hitch,  without  a  slip, 
To  set  them  safely  in  the  ship 
That  waits  to  take  them  overseas. 
266 


FIRES  267 


My  mother  little  dreams  it's  I, 

Up  there,  as  tiny  as  a  fly, 

Who  stand  above  the  biggest  crane, 

And  swing  the  ship-loads  through  the  sky : 

While  she  sits,  hunching  in  her  chair, 

Day-long,  and  stitching  trousers  there  — 

At  three-and-three  the  dozen  pair. 

And  sometimes  when  it  turns  me  dizzy, 

I  lie  and  watch  her,  ever  busy ; 

And  wonder  at  a  lot  of  things 

I  never  speak  to  her  about: 

I  wonder  why  she  never  sings 

Like  other  people  on  the  stair  .  .  . 

And  why,  whenever  she  goes  out 

Upon  a  windy  day,  the  air 

Makes  her  sad  eyes  so  strangely  bright  .  . 

And  if  the  colour  of  her  hair 

Was  brown  like  mine,  or  always  white  . 

And  why,  when  through  the  noise  of  feet 

Of  people  passing  in  the  street, 

She  hears  a  dog  yelp  or  sheep  bleat, 

She  always  starts  up  in  her  chair, 

And  looks  before  her  with  strange  stare, 

Yet  seeing  nothing  anywhere: 

Though  right  before  her,  through  the  sky, 

The  biggest  crane  goes  swinging  by. 

But  it's  a  lucky  day  and  rare 

When  she's  the  time  to  talk  with  me  .  .  . 

Though,  only  yesterday,  when  night 

Shut  out,  at  last,  the  crane  from  sight  .  . 

She,  in  her  bed,  and  thinking  I 

Was  sleeping  —  though  I  watch  the  sky, 

At  times,  till  it  is  morning-light, 

And  ships  are  waiting  to  unload  — 

I  heard  her  murmur  drowsily: 

"  The  pit-pat-pattering  of  feet, 

All  night,  along  the  moonlit  road  .  .  . 

A  yelp,  a  whistle,  and  a  bleat  .  .  . 

The  bracken's  deep  and  soft  and  dry  .  .  . 

And  safe  and  snug,  and  no  one  near  .  .  . 

The  little  burn  sings  low  and  sweet, 

The  little  burn  sings  shrill  and  clear  .  . 


268  FIRES 

And  loud  all  night  the  cock-grouse  talks  . 

There's  naught  in  heaven  or  earth  to  fear 

The  pit-pat-pattering  of  feet  .  .  . 

A  yelp,  a  whistle,  and  a  bleat  .  .  ." 

And  then  she  started  up  in  bed : 

I  felt  her  staring,  as  she  said: 

"  I  wonder  if  he  ever  hears 

The  pit-pat-pattering  of  sheep, 

Or  smells  the  broken  bracken  stalks  .  .  . 

While  she  is  lying  sound-asleep 

Beside  him  .  .  .  after  all  these  years  — 

Just  nineteen  years,  this  very  night  — 

Remembering?  .  .  .  and  now,  his  son, 

A  man  .  .  .  and  never  stood  upright !  " 

And  then  I  heard  a  sound  of  tears; 
But  dared  not  speak,  or  let  her  know 
I'd  caught  a  single  whisper,  though 
I  wondered  long  what  she  had  done 
That  she  should  fear  the  pattering  feet: 
And  when  those  queer  words  in  the  night 
Had  fretted  me  half-dead  with  fright, 
And  set  my  throbbing  head  abeat  .  .  . 
Out  of  the  darkness,  suddenly, 
The  crane's  long  arm  swung  over  me, 
Among  the  stars,  high  overhead  .  .  . 
And  then  it  dipped,  and  clutched  my  bed : 
And  I  had  not  a  breath  to  cry, 
Before  it  swung  me  through  the  sky, 
Above  the  sleeping  city  high, 
Where  blinding  stars  went  blazing  by  .  . 

My  mother,  hunching  in  her  chair, 
Day-long,  and  stitching  trousers  there, 
At  three-and-three  the  dozen  pair, 
With  quiet  eyes  and  smooth  white  hair  . 
You'd  little  think  a  yelp  or  bleat 
Could  start  her ;  or  that  she  was  weeping 
So  sorely,  when  she  thought  me  sleeping. 
She  never  tells  me  why  she  fears 
The  pit-pat-pattering  of  feet 
All  night  along  the  moonlit  road  .  .  . 
Or  what's  the  wrong  that  she  has  done  .  . 
I  wonder  if  't  would  bring  her  tears, 


FIRES  269 


If  she  could  know  that  I,  her  son  — 
A  man,  who  never  stood  upright, 
But  all  the  livelong  day  must  lie, 
And  watch  beyond  the  window-pane 
The  swaying  of  the  biggest  crane  — 
That  I,  within  its  clutch,  last  night, 
Went  whirling  through  the  starry  sky. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE 

Just  as  my  watch  was  done,  the  fog  had  lifted ; 

And  we  could  see  the  flashing  of  our  light ; 

And  see,  once  more,  the  reef  beyond  the  Head, 

O'er  which,  six  days  and  nights,  the  mist  had  drifted  — 

Six  days  and  nights  in  thick  white  mist  had  drifted, 

Until  it  seemed  all  time  to  mist  had  drifted, 

And  day  and  night  were  but  one  blind  white  night. 

But  on  the  seventh  midnight  the  wind  shifted : 
And  I  was  glad  to  tumble  into  bed, 
Thankful  to  hear  no  more  the  blaring  horn, 
That  ceaselessly  had  sounded,  night  and  morn, 
With  moaning  echoes  through  the  mist,  to  warn 
The  blind,  bewildered  ships  at  sea: 
Yet,  though  as  tired  as  any  dog, 
I  lay  awhile,  and  seemed  to  feel 
Fog  lying  on  my  eyes  still  heavily; 
And  still,  the  horn  unceasingly 
Sang  through  my  head,  till  gradually 
Through  night's  strange  stillness,  over  me 
Sweet  sleep  began  to  steal, 
Sleep,  blind  and  thick  and  fleecy  as  the  fog. 
For  all  I  knew,  I  might  have  slept 
A  moment,  or  eternity ; 
When,  startled  by  a  crash, 
I  waked  to  find  I'd  leapt 
Upright  on  the  floor: 
And  stood  there,  listening  to  the  smash 
Of  falling  glass  .  .  .  and  then  a  thud 
Of  something  heavy  tumbling 
Into  the  next  room  .  .  . 
A  pad  of  naked  feet  .  .  . 
A  moan  ...  a  sound  of  stumbling  .  .  .- 
A  heavier  thud  .  .  .  and  then  no  more. 
And  I  stood  shivering  in  the  gloom, 
With  creeping  flesh,  and  tingling  blood, 
Until  I  gave  myself  a  shake 
270 


FIRES  271 

To  bring  my  wits  more  wide  awake; 

And  lit  a  lantern,  and  flung  wide  the  door. 

Half-dazed,  and  dazzled  by  the  light, 

At  first  it  seemed  I'd  only  find 

A  broken  pane,  a  flapping  blind : 

But  when  I  raised  the  lantern  o'er  my  head, 

I  saw  a  naked  boy  upon  the  bed, 

Who  crouched  and  shuddered  on  the  folded  sheet; 

And,  on  his  face,  before  my  feet, 

A  naked  man,  who  lay  as  if  quite  dead, 

Though  on  his  broken  knuckles  blood  was  red : 

And  all  my  wits  awakened  at  the  sight. 

I  set  the  lantern  down ;  and  took  the  child, 

Who  looked  at  me,  with  piteous  eyes  and  wild  ; 

And  chafed  his  chill,  wet  body,  till  it  glowed ; 

And  forcing  spirit  'twixt  his  chattering  teeth, 

I  tucked  him  snugly  in  beneath 

The  blankets,  and  soon  left  him  warmly  stowed: 

And  stooped  to  tend  the  man,  who  lay 

Still  senseless  on  the  floor. 

I  turned  him  off  his  face; 

And  laid  him  on  the  other  bed ; 

And  washed  and  staunched  his  wound. 

And  yet  for  all  that  I  could  do, 

I  could  not  bring  him  to, 

Or  see  a  trace 

Of  life  returning  to  that  heavy  head. 

It  seemed  he'd  swooned, 

When  through  the  window  he'd  made  way, 

Just  having  strength  to  lay 

The  boy  in  safety.     Still  as  death, 

He  lay,  without  a  breath: 

And  seeing  I  could  do  no  more 

To  help  him  in  the  fight  for  life; 

I  turned  again  to  tend  the  lad ; 

And,  as  I  looked  on  him,  was  glad 

To  find  him  sleeping  quietly. 

So,  fetching  fuel,  I  lit  a  fire: 
And  quickly  had  as  big  a  blaze 
As  any  housewife  could  desire: 
Then  'twixt  the  beds  I  set  a  chair, 


272  FIRES 

That  I  might  watch  until  they  stirred: 
And  as  I  saw  them  lying  there  — 
The  sleeping  boy,  and  him  who  lay 
In  that  strange  stiller  sleep,  'twas  plain 
That  they  were  son  and  father,  now 
I'd  time  to  look,  and  wonder  how, 
In  such  a  desperate  plight, 
Without  a  stitch  or  rag, 
They'd  taken  refuge  from  the  night. 
And,  as  I  wondered  drowsily, 
It  seemed  yet  queerer  and  more  queer; 
For  round  the  Head  the  rocks  are  sheer, 
With  scarce  a  foothold  for  a  bird ; 
And  it  seemed  quite  beyond  belief 
That  any  wrecked  upon  the  reef, 
Could  swim  ashore,  and  scale  the  crag, 
By  daylight,  let  alone  by  night. 

But  they  who  live  beside  the  sea 

Know  naught's  too  wonderful  to  be: 

And  as  I  sat,  and  heard 

The  quiet  breathing  of  the  child, 

Great  weariness  came  over  me; 

And,  in  a  kind  of  daze, 

I  watched  the  blaze, 

With  nodding  head : 

And  must  have  slept,  for,  presently, 

I  found  the  man  was  sitting  up  in  bed : 

And  talking  to  himself,  with  wide,  unseeing  eyes. 

At  first,  I  hardly  made  out  what  he  said: 

But  soon  his  voice,  so  hoarse  and  wild, 

Grew  calm:  and,  straining,  I  could  hear 

The  broken  words  that  came  with  many  sighs. 

"  Yes,  lad:  she's  going:  but  there's  naught  to  fear: 

For  I  can  swim:  and  tow  you  in  the  belt. 

Come,  let's  join  hands  together;  and  leap  clear  .  . 

Ay,  son:  it's  dark  and  cold  .  .  .  but  you  have  felt 

The  cold  and  dark  before  .  .  . 

And  you  should  scorn  .  .  . 

And  we  must  be  near  shore  .  .  . 

For  hark,  the  horn ! 

Think  of  your  mother,  and  your  home,  and  leap  .  . 

She  thinks  of  us,  lad,  waking  or  asleep  .  .  . 


FIRES  273 

You  would  not  leave  her  lonely? 

Nay!  .  .  .  then  ...  go!  ... 

Well  done,  lad!  ...  Nay!  I'm  here  .  .  . 

Ay,  son,  it's  cold :  but  you're  too  big  to  fear. 

Now  then,  you're  snug:  I've  got  you  safe  in  tow: 

The  worst  is  over :  and  we've  only 

To  make  for  land  .  .  .  we've  naught  ...  to  do  ... 

but  steer  .  .  . 
But  steer  .  .  .  but  steer  .  .  ." 

He  paused;  and  sank  down  in  the  bed,  quite  done: 

And  lay  a  moment  silent,  while  his  son 

Still  slumbered  in  the  other  bed, 

And  on  his  quiet  face  the  firelight  shone. 

Then,  once  again,  the  father  raised  his  head, 

And  rambled  on  ... 

"  Say,  lad,  what  cheer  ? 

I  thought  you'd  dropped  asleep :  but  you're  all  right. 

We'll  rest  a  moment  ...  I'm  quite  out  of  breath  .  .  . 

It's  further  than  .  .  .  Nay,  son !  there's  naught  to  fear  .  .  . 

The  land  must  be  quite  near  .  .  . 

The  horn  is  loud  enough! 

Ay,  lad,  it's  cold : 

But,  you're  too  old 

To  cry  for  cold. 

Now  .  .  .  keep  .  .  .  tight  hold: 

And  we'll  be  off  again. 

I've  got  my  breath  .  .  ." 

He  sank,  once  more,  as  still  as  death, 

With  hands  that  clutched  the  counterpane: 

But  still  the  boy  was  sleeping  quietly. 

And  then,  the  father  sat  up  suddenly: 

And  cried :     "  See !     See ! 

The  land !  the  land ! 

It's  near  ...  I  touch  it  with  my  hand." 

And  now,  "  Oh  God !  "  he  moaned. 

Small  wonder,  when  he  saw  what  lay  before  — 

The  black,  unbroken  crags,  so  grim  and  high, 

That  must  have  seemed  to  him  to  soar 

Sheer  from  the  sea's  edge  to  the  sky. 

But  soon  he  plucked  up  heart,  once  more: 

"  We're  safe,  lad  —  safe  ashore ! 

A  narrow  ledge,  but  land,  firm  land. 


274  FIRES 

We'll  soon  be  high  and  dry. 

Nay,  son:  we  can't  stay  here: 

The  waves  would  have  us  back; 

Or  we  should  perish  of  the  cold. 

Come,  lad:  there's  naught  to  fear  .  .  . 

You  must  be  brave  and  bold. 

Perhaps,  we'll  strike  a  track. 

Ay,  son:  it's  steep,  and  black, 

And  slimy  to  the  hold: 

But  we  must  climb,  and  see!  the  mist  is  gone. 

The  stars  are  shining  clear  .  .  . 

Think,  son,  your  mother's  at  the  top; 

And  you'll  be  up  in  no  time.     See,  that  star, 

The  brightest  star  that  ever  shone, 

Just  think  it's  she  who  watches  you ; 

And  knows  that  you'll  be  brave  and  true. 

Come,  lad :  we  may  not  stop  .  .  . 

Or,  else,  the  cold  .  .  . 

Give  me  your  hand  .  .  . 

Your  foot  there,  now  .  .  .  just  room  to  stand. 

It  cannot  be  so  far  .  .  . 

We'll  soon  be  up  ...  this  work  should  make  us  warm. 

Thank  God,  it's  not  a  storm, 

Or  we  should  scarce  .  .  .  your  foot,  here,  firm  .  .  . 

Nay,  lad !  you  must  not  squirm. 

Come,  be  a  man :  you  shall  not  fall : 

I'll  hold  you  tight. 

There :  now,  you  are  my  own  son,  after  all ! 

Your  mother,  lad, 

Her  star  burns  bright  .  .  . 

And  we're  already  half-way  up  the  height  .  .  . 

Your  mother  will  be  glad, 

Ay,  she'll  be  glad  to  hear 

Of  her  brave  boy  who  had  no  fear. 

Your  foot  .  .  .  your  hand  .  .  .  'twas  but  a  bird 
You  startled  out  of  bed: 
'Twould  think  it  queer 
To  wake  up,  suddenly,  and  see  your  head! 
And  when  you  stirred  .... 
Nay!  steady,  lad! 
Or  you  will  send  your  dad  .  .  . 
Your  hand  .  .  .  your  foot  .  .  .  we'll  rest  upon  this 
ledge  .  .  . 


FIRES  275 

Why,  son,  we're  at  the  top!     I  feel  the  edge, 

And  grass,  soft,  dewy  grass! 

Let  go,  one  moment;  and  I'll  draw  you  up  ... 

Now,  lad !  ...  Thank  God !  that's  past  .  .  . 

And  you  are  safe,  at  last : 

You're  safe,  you're  safe  .  .  .  and  now  my  precious  lass 

Will  see  her  son,  her  little  son,  again. 

I  never  thought  to  reach  the  top,  to-night. 

God!     What  a  height! 

Nay !  but  you  must  not  look :,  'twould  turn  your  head. 

And  we  must  not  stand  shivering  here  .  .  . 

And  see  ...  a  flashing  light  .  .  . 

It's  sweeping  towards  us:  and  now  you  stand  bright  .  .  . 

Ah,  your  poor,  bleeding  hands  and  feet ! 

My  little  son,  my  sweet! 

There's  nothing  more  to  fear. 

A  lighthouse,  lad!     And  we  must  make  for  it. 

You're  tired ;  I'll  carry  you  a  bit. 

Nay,  son :  'twill  warm  me  up  ... 

And  there  will  be  a  fire  and  bed ; 

And  even  perhaps  a  cup 

Of  something  hot  to  drink, 

And  something  good  to  eat. 

And  think,  son,  only  think, 

Your  home  .  .  .  and  mother  .  .  .  once  again." 

Once  more,  the  weary  head 

Sank  back  upon  the  bed: 

And  for  a  while  he  hardly  stirred; 

But  only  muttered,  now  and  then, 

A  broken  word, 

As  though  to  cheer 

His  son,  who  still  slept  quietly, 

Upon  the  other  side  of  me. 

And  then,  my  blood  ran  cold  to  hear 

A  sudden  cry  of  fear: 

"  My  son !     My  son ! 

Ah,  God,  he's  done! 

I  thought  I'd  laid  him  on  the  bed  .  .  . 

I've  laid  him  on  white  mist,  instead: 

He's  fallen  sheer  .  .  ." 

Then,  I  sprang  up;  and  cried:     "Your  son  is  here! 


276  FIRES 

And  taking  up  the  sleeping  boy, 
I  bore  him  to  his  father's  arms: 
And  as  he  nestled  to  his  breast, 
Kind  life  came  back  to  those  wild  eyes, 
And  filled  them  with  deep  joy: 
And  free  of  all  alarms, 
The  son  and  father  lay 
Together,  in  sweet  rest, 

While  through  the  window  stole  the  strange,  clear  light 
of  day. 


THE  MONEY 

They  found  her  cold  upon  the  bed. 
The  cause  of  death,  the  doctor  said, 
Was  nothing  save  the  lack  of  bread. 

Her  clothes  were  but  a  sorry  rag 

That  barely  hid  the  nakedness 

Of  her  poor  body's  piteous  wreck: 

Yet,  when  they  stripped  her  of  her  dress, 

They  found  she  was  not  penniless; 

For,  in  a  little  silken  bag, 

Tied  with  red  ribbon  round  her  neck, 

Was  four-pound-seventeen-and-five. 

"  It  seems  a  strange  and  shameful  thing 
That  she  should  starve  herself  to  death, 
While  she'd  the  means  to  keep  alive. 
Why,  such  a  sum  would  keep  the  breath 
Within  her  body  till  she'd  found 
A  livelihood;  and  it  would  bring  .  .  . 
But  there  is  very  little  doubt 
She'd  set  her  heart  upon  a  grand 
And  foolish  funeral  —  for  the  pride 
Of  poor  folk,  who  can  understand !  — 
And  so,  because  she  was  too  proud 
To  meet  death  penniless,  she  died." 

And  talking,  talking,  they  trooped  out: 
And,  as  they  went,  I  turned  about 
To  look  upon  her  in  her  shroud; 
And  saw  again  the  quiet  face 
That  filled  with  light  that  shameful  place, 
Touched  with  the  tender,  youthful  grace 
Death  brings  the  broken  and  outworn 
To  comfort  kind  hearts  left  to  mourn. 

And  as  I  stood,  the  sum  they'd  found 
Rang  with  a  queer,  familiar  ring 
277 


278  FIRES 

Of  some  uncouth,  uncanny  sound 
Heard  in  dark  ages  underground ; 
And  "  four-pound-seventeen-and-five  " 
Through  all  my  body  seemed  to  sing, 
Without  recalling  anything 
To  help  me,  strive  as  I  might  strive. 

But,  as  I  stumbled  down  the  stairs 

Into  the  alley's  gloom  and  stench  — 

A  whiff  of  burning  oil 

That  took  me  unawares  — 

And  I  knew  all  there  was  to  tell. 

And  though  the  rain  in  torrents  fell, 

I  walked  on,  heedless,  through  the  drench  . 

And  all  the  while,  I  seemed  to  sit 

Upon  a  tub  in  Lansel  pit; 

And  in  the  candle-light  to  see 

John  Askerton,  a  "  deputy," 

Who  paused  awhile  to  talk  with  me, 

His  kind  face  glistening  black  with  toil. 

"  'Twas  here  I  found  him  dead,  beside 

His  engine.     All  the  other  men 

Were  up  —  for  things  were  slack  just  then - 

And  I'd  one  foot  upon  the  cage; 

When,  all  at  once,  I  caught  the  smell 

Of  burning.     Even  as  I  turned 

To  see  what  it  could  be  that  burned, 

The  seam  behind  was  choked  with  stife. 

And  so  I  dropped  on  hands  and  knees, 

And  crawled  along  the  gallery, 

Beneath  the  smoke,  that  I  might  see 

What  ailed:  and  as  I  crept,  half-blind, 

With  smarting  eyes,  and  breath  awheeze, 

I  scarcely  knew  what  I  should  find. 

At  times,  I  thought  I'd  never  know  .  .  . 

And  'twas  already  quite  an  age 

Since  I  set  out  ...  I  felt  as  though 

I  had  been  crawling  all  my  life 

Beneath  the  stifling  cloud  of  smoke 

That  clung  about  me  fit  to  choke : 

And  when,  at  last,  I'd  struggled  here, 

'Twas  long  ere  I  could  see  things  clear  .  .  , 

That  he  was  lying  here  .  .  .  and  he 


FIRES  279 

Was  dead  .  .  .  and  burning  like  a  tree  .  .  . 

A  tree-trunk  soaked  in  oil  ...  No  doubt, 

The  engine  had  caught  fire,  somehow; 

And  when  he  tried  to  put  it  out, 

His  greasy  clothes  had  caught  .  .  .  and  now! 

As  fine  a  lad  as  you  could  see  .  .  . 

And  such  a  lad  for  singing  ...  I 

Had  heard  him  when  I  worked  hard  by; 

And  often  quiet  I  would  sit 

To  hear  him,  singing  in  the  pit, 

As  though  his  heart  knew  naught  of  it 

And  life  was  nothing  but  a  song. 

"  He'd  not  been  working  with  us  long: 

And  little  of  his  ways  I  knew : 

But  when  I'd  got  him  up,  at  last, 

And  he  was  lying  in  the  shed, 

The  sweet  song  silent  in  his  breast, 

And  there  was  nothing  more  to  do ; 

The  notion  came  into  my  head 

That  he  had  always  been  well-dressed ; 

And  seemed  a  neat  and  thrifty  lad  ... 

And  lived  in  lodgings  ...  so,  maybe, 

Would  carry  on  him  all  he  had. 

So,  back  into  the  cage  I  stepped: 

And  when  it  reached  the  bottom,  crept 

Along  the  gallery  again ; 

And  in  the  dust  where  he  had  lain, 

I  rummaged,  until  I  found  all 

That  from  his  burning  pockets  fell. 

And  when  it  seemed  there  was  no  more, 

I  thought  how,  happy  and  alive, 

And  recking  naught  what  might  befall, 

He,  too,  for  all  that  I  could  tell, 

Just  where  I  stood,  had  reckoned  o'er 

That  four-pound-seventeen-and-five. 

"  Ay,  like  enough  ...  for  soon  we  heard 

That  in  a  week  he'd  looked  to  wed. 

He'd  meant  to  give  the  girl  that  night 

The  money  to  buy  furniture. 

She  came,  and  watched  till  morning-light 

Beside  the  body  in  the  shed: 

Then  rose:  and  took,  without  a  word, 


28o  FIRES 

The  money  he  had  left  for  her." 


Then,  as  I  wandered  through  the  rain, 

I  seemed  to  stand  in  awe  again 

Beside  that  lonely  garret-bed. 

And  it  was  good  to  think  the  dead 

Had  known  the  wealth  she  would  not  spend 

To  keep  a  little  while  alive  — 

His  four-pound-seventeen-and-five  — 

Would  buy  her  houseroom  in  the  end. 


THE  SNOW 

Just  as  the  school  came  out, 

The  first  white  flakes  were  drifting  round  about: 

And  all  the  children  shouted  with  delight 

To  see  such  flakes,  so  big,  so  white, 

Tumbling  from  a  cloud  so  black, 

And  whirling  helter-skelter 

Across  the  windy  moor: 

And  as  they  saw  the  light  flakes  race, 

Started  off  in  headlong  chase, 

Swooping  on  them  with  a  shout, 

When  they  seemed  to  drop  for  shelter 

Underneath  the  dry-stone  wall. 

And  then  the  master,  at  the  schoolhouse  door, 

Called  out  to  them  to  hurry  home,  before 

The  storm  should  come  on  worse :  and  watched  till  all 

Had  started  off  by  road  or  moorland  track: 

When,  turning  to  his  wife,  he  said 

It  looked  like  dirty  weather  overhead: 

He  thought  'twould  be  a  heavy  fall, 

And  threatened  for  a  roughish  night; 

But  they  would  all  reach  home  in  broad  daylight. 

'Twas  early  yet ;  he'd  let  the  school  out  soon, 

As  it  had  looked  so  lowering  since  forenoon, 

And  many  had  a  goodish  step  to  go: 

And  it  was  but  ill-travelling  in  the  snow. 

Then  by  the  fire  he  settled  down  to  read ; 

And  to  the  weather  paid  no  further  heed. 

And  on  their  road  home,  full  three  miles  away, 
John,  and  his  little  sister,  Janey,  started ; 
And  at  the  setting  out,  were  happy-hearted 
To  be  let  loose  into  a  world  so  gay, 
With  jolly  winds  and  frisking  flakes  at  play 
That  flicked  your  cheek,  and  whistled  in  your  teeth: 
And  now  hard  on  each  other's  heels  they  darted 
To  catch  a  flake  that  floated  like  a  feather, 
281 


282  FIRES 

Then  dropt  to  nestle  in  a  clump  of  heather ; 

And  often  tumbled  both  together 

Into  a  deep  delicious  bed 

Of  brown  and  springy  heath. 

But  when  the  sky  grew  blacker  overhead, 

As  if  it  were  the  coming  on  of  night, 

And  every  little  hill,  well-known  to  sight, 

Looked  big  and  strange  in  its  new  fleece  of  white ; 

And  as  yet  faster  and  more  thickly 

The  big  flakes  fell, 

To  John  the  thought  came  that  it  might  be  well 

To  hurry  home;  so,  striding  on  before, 

He  set  a  steady  face  across  the  moor ; 

And  called  to  Janey  she  must  come  more  quickly. 

The  wind  soon  dropped :  and  fine  and  dry  the  snow 

Came  whispering  down  about  them,  as  they  trudged : 

And  when  they'd  travelled  for  a  mile  or  so, 

They  found  it  ankle-deep :  for  here  the  storm 

Had  started  long  before  it  reached  the  school : 

And  as  he  felt  the  dry  flakes  tingling  warm 

Upon  his  cheek,  and  set  him  all  aglow, 

John  in  his  manly  pride,  a  little  grudged 

That  now  and  then  he  had  to  wait  awhile 

For  Janey,  lagging  like  a  little  fool: 

But  when  they'd  covered  near  another  mile 

Through  that  bewildering  white  without  a  sound, 

Save  rustling,  rustling,  rustling  all  around, 

And  all  his  well-known  world,  so  queer  and  dim, 

He  waited  until  she  caught  up  to  him ; 

And  felt  quite  glad  that  he  was  not  alone. 

And  when  they  reached  the  low,  half-buried  stone 

That  marked  where  some  old  shepherd  had  been  found, 

Lost  in  the  snow  in  seeking  his  lost  sheep, 

One  wild  March  night,  full  forty  years  ago, 

He  wished,  and  wished,  that  they  were  safe  and  sound 

In  their  own  house:  and  as  the  snow  got  deeper, 

And  every  little  bank  seemed  strangely  steeper, 

He  thought,  and  thought  of  that  lost  sleeper, 

And  saw  him  lying  in  the  snow; 

Till  every  fleecy  clump  of  heath 

Seemed  to  shroud  a  man  beneath ; 

And  now  his  blood  went  hot  and  cold 


FIRES  283 

Through  very  fear  of  that  dread  sight; 

And  then  he  felt  that,  in  sheer  fright, 

He  must  take  to  his  heels  in  flight, 

He  cared  not  whither,  so  that  it  might  be 

Where  there  were  no  more  bundles,  cold  and  white, 

Like  sheeted  bodies,  plain  to  see. 

And,  all  on  edge,  he  turned  to  chide 

His  sister,  dragging  at  his  side: 

But  when  he  found  that  she  was  crying, 

Because  her  feet  and  hands  were  cold, 

He  quite  forgot  to  scold : 

And  spoke  kind  words  of  cheer  to  her: 

And  saw  no  more  dead  shepherds  lying 

In  any  snowy  clump  of  heather. 

So,  hand  in  hand,  they  trudged  together, 

Through  that  strange  world  of  drifting  gloam, 

Sharp-set  and  longing  sore  for  home. 

And  John  remembered  how  that  morning 

When  they  set  out,  the  sky  was  blue  — 

Clean,  cloudless  blue;  and  gave  no  warning; 

And  how  through  air  as  clear  as  glass, 

The  far-off  hills  he  knew 

Looked  strangely  near,  and  glittered  brightly; 

Each  sprig  of  heath  and  blade  of  grass 

In  the  cold  wind  blowing  lightly, 

Each  clump  of  green  and  crimson  moss 

Sparkling  in  the  wintry  sun. 

But  now  as  they  toiled  home,  across 

These  unfamiliar  fells,  nigh  done, 

The  wind  again  began  to  blow; 

And  thicker,  thicker  fell  the  snow: 

Till  Janey  sank,  too  numb  to  stir: 

When  John  stooped  down,  and  lifted  her, 

To  carry  her  upon  his  back. 

And  then  his  head  began  to  tire: 

And  soon  he  seemed  to  lose  the  track  ... 

And  now  the  world  was  all  afire  .  .  . 

Now  dazzling  white,  now  dazzling  black  .  .  . 

And  then,  through  some  strange  land  of  light, 

Where  clouds  of  butterflies  all  white, 

Fluttered  and  flickered  all  about, 

Dancing  ever  in  and  out, 


284  FIRES 

He  wandered,  blinded  by  white  wings, 
That  rustled,  rustled  in  his  ears 
\Vith  cold,  uncanny  whisperings  .  .  . 
And  then  it  seemed  his  bones  must  crack 
\Vith  that  dead  weight  upon  his  back  .  .  . 
When,  on  his  cheek,  he  felt  warm  tears, 
And  a  cold  tangle  of  wet  hair; 
And  knew  'twas  Janey  weeping  there : 
And,  taking  heart,  he  stumbled  on, 
While  in  his  breast  the  hearthlight  shone: 
And  it  was  all  of  his  desire 
To  sit  once  more  before  the  fire; 
And  feel  the  friendly  glowing  heat. 
But  as  he  strove  with  fumbling  feet, 
It  seemed  that  he  would  never  find 
Again  that  cheery  hearth  and  kind; 
But  wander  ever,  bent  and  blind, 
Beneath  his  burden  through  the  night 
Of  dreadful,  spangly,  whispering  white. 

The  wind  rose ;  and  the  dry  snow  drifted 

In  little  eddies  round  the  track: 

And  when,  at  last,  the  dark  cloud  rifted, 

He  saw  a  strange  lough,  lying  cold  and  black, 

'Mid  unknown,  ghostly  hills;  and  knew 

That  they  were  lost:  and  once  again, 

The  snow  closed  in :  and  swept  from  view 

The  dead  black  water  and  strange  fells. 

But  still  he  struggled  on:  and  then, 

When  he  seemed  climbing  up  an  endless  steep, 

And  ever  slipping,  sliding  back, 

With  ankles  aching  like  to  crack, 

And  only  longed  for  sleep ; 

He  heard  a  tinkling  sound  of  bells, 

That  kept  on  ringing,  ringing,  ringing, 

Until  his  dizzy  head  was  singing; 

And  he  could  think  of  nothing  else : 

And  then  it  seemed  the  weight  was  lifted 

From  off  his  back ;  and  on  the  ground 

His  sister  stood,  while,  all  around 

Were  giants  clad  in  coats  of  wool, 

With  big,  curled  horns,  and  queer  black  faces, 

WTio  bobbed  and  curtsied  in  their  places, 

With  blazing  eyes  and  strange  grimaces; 


FIRES  285 

But  never  made  a  sound; 

Then  nearly  shook  themselves  to  pieces, 

Shedding  round  a  smell  of  warm,  wet  fleeces : 

Then  one  it  seemed  as  if  he  knew, 

Looking  like  the  old  lame  ewe, 

Began  to  bite  his  coat,  and  pull 

Till  he  could  hardly  stand:  its  eyes 

Glowing  to  a  monstrous  size, 

Till  they  were  like  a  lantern  light 

Burning  brightly  through  the  night  .  .  . 

When  some  one  stooped  from  out  the  sky, 

To  rescue  him ;  and  set  him  high : 

And  he  was  riding,  snug  and  warm, 

In  some  king's  chariot  through  the  storm, 

Without  a  sound  of  wheel  or  hoof  — 

In  some  king's  chariot,  filled  with  straw, 

And  he  would  nevermore  be  cold  .  .  . 

And  then  with  wondering  eyes  he  saw 

Deep  caverns  of  pure  burning  gold; 

And  knew  himself  in  fairyland: 

But  when  he  stretched  an  eager  hand 

To  touch  the  glowing  walls,  he  felt 

A  queer  warm  puff,  as  though  of  fire  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  he  smelt 

The  reek  of  peat ;  and  looking  higher, 

He  saw  the  old,  black  porridge-kettle 

Hanging  from  the  cavern  roof, 

Hanging  on  its  own  black  crook: 

And  he  was  lying  on  the  settle, 

While  by  his  side, 

With  tender  look, 

His  mother  knelt; 

And  he  had  only  one  desire 

In  all  the  world ;  and  t'was  to  fling 

His  arms  about  her  neck,  and  hide 

His  happy  tears  upon  her  breast. 

And  as  to  her  he  closely  pressed, 

He  heard  his  merry  father  sing: 

"  There  was  a  silly  sleepyhead, 

Who  thought  he'd  like  to  go  to  bed : 

So  in  a  stell  he  went  to  sleep, 

And  snored  among  the  other  sheep." 

And  then  his  mother  gently  said : 


286  FIRES 

"  Nay,  father :  do  not  tease  him  now : 
He's  quite  worn  out :  and  needs  a  deal 
Of  quiet  sleep:  and,  after  all, 
He  brought  his  sister  safe  from  school." 
And  now  he  felt  her  warm  tears  fall 
Upon  his  cheek :  and  thrilled  to  feel 
His  father's  hand  on  his  hot  brow, 
And  hear  him  say:     "The  lad's  no  fool." 


RED  FOX 

I  hated  him  ...  his  beard  was  red  .  .  . 
Red  fox,  red  thief !  .  .  .  Ah,  God,  that  she  — 
She  with  the  proud  and  lifted  head 
That  never  stooped  to  glance  at  me  — 
So  fair  and  fancy-free,  should  wed 
A  slinking  dog-fox  such  as  he ! 

Was  it  last  night  I  hated  him? 

Last  night?     It  seems  an  age  ago  .  .  . 

At  whiles,  my  mind  comes  over  dim 

As  if  God's  breath  .  .  .  yet,  ever  slow 

And  dull,  too  dull  she  .  .  .  limb  from  limb 

Last  night  I  could  have  torn  him,  so! 

My  lonely  bed  was  fire  and  ice. 
I  could  not  sleep.     I  could  not  lie. 
I  shut  my  hot  eyes  once  or  twice  .  .  . 
And  saw  a  red  fox  slinking  by  ... 
A  red  dog-fox  that  turned  back  thrice 
To  mock  me  with  a  merry  eye. 

And  so  I  rose  to  pace  the  floor  .  .  . 
And  ere  I  knew,  my  clothes  were  on  .  . 
And  as  I  stood  outside  the  door, 
Cold  in  the  Summer  moonlight  shone 
The  gleaming  barrel  .  .  .  and  no  more 
I  feared  the  fox,  for  fear  was  gone. 

"  The  best  of  friends,"  I  said,  "  must  part  .  .  . 
"  The  best  of  friends  must  part,"  I  said: 
And  like  the  creaking  of  a  cart 
The  words  went  wheeling  through  my  head. 
"  The  best  of  friends  .  .  ."  and,  in  my  heart, 
Red  fox,  already  lying  dead! 

I  took  the  trackway  through  the  wood. 
Red  fox  had  sought  a  woodland  den, 
287 


288  FIRES 

When  she  .  .  .  when  she  .  .  .  but,  'twas  not  good 
To  think  too  much  on  her  just  the"n  .  .  . 
The  woman  must  beware,  who  stood 
Between  two  stark  and  fearless  men. 

The  pathway  took  a  sudden  turn  .  .  . 
And  in  a  trice  my  steps  were  stayed. 
Before  me,  in  the  moonlit  fern, 
A  young  dog-fox  and  vixen  played 
With  their  red  cubs  beside  the  burn  .  .  . 
And  I  stood  trembling  and  afraid. 

They  frolicked  in  the  warm  moonlight  — 
A  scuffling  heap  of  heads  and  heels  .  .  . 
A  rascal  rush  ...  a  playful  bite  .  .  . 
A  scuttling  brush,  and  frightened  squeals  .  .  . 
A  flash  of  teeth  ...  a  show  of  fight  .  .  . 
Then  lively  as  a  bunch  of  eels 

Once  more  they  gambolled  in  the  brake, 
And  tumbled  headlong  in  the  stream, 
Then  scrambled  gasping  out  to  shake 
Their  sleek,  wet,  furry  coats  agleam. 
I  watched  them,  fearful  and  awake  .  .  . 
I  watched  them,  hateless  and  ad  ream. 

The  dog-fox  gave  a  bark,  and  then 
All  ran  to  him :  and,  full  of  pride, 
He  took  the  trackway  up  the  glen, 
His  family  trotting  by  his  side: 
The  young  cubs  nosing  for  the  den, 
With  trailing  brushes,  sleepy-eyed. 

And  then  it  seems  I  must  have  slept  — 
Dropt  dead  asleep  .  .  .  dropt  dead  outworn. 
I  wakened,  as  the  first  gleam  crept 
Among  the  fern,  and  it  was  morn  .  .  . 
God's  eye  about  their  home  had  kept 
Good  watch,  the  night  her  son  was  born. 


THE  OVENS 

He  trailed  along  the  cinder-track 
Beside  the  sleek  canal,  whose  black 
Cold,  slinking  waters  shivered  back 
Each  frosty  spark  of  starry  light ; 
And  each  star  pricked,  an  icy  pin, 
Through  his  old  jacket  worn  and  thin : 
The  raw  wind  rasped  his  shrinking  skin 
As  if  stark  naked  to  its  bite ; 
Yet,  cutting  through  him  like  a  knife, 
It  would  not  cut  the  thread  of  life; 
But  only  turned  his  feet  to  stones 
With  red-hot  soles,  that  weighed  like  lead 
In  his  old  broken  boots.     His  head, 
Sunk  low  upon  his  sunken  chest, 
Was  but  a  burning,  icy  ache 
That  strained  a  skull  which  would  not  break 
To  let  him  tumble  down  to  rest. 
He  felt  the  cold  stars  in  his  bones : 
And  only  wished  that  he  were  dead, 
With  no  curst  searching  wind  to  shred 
The  very  flesh  from  off  his  bones  — 
No  wind  to  whistle  through  his  bones, 
His  naked,  icy,  burning  bones: 
When,  looking  up,  he  saw,  ahead, 
The  far  coke-ovens'  glowing  light 
That  burnt  a  red  hole  in  the  night. 
And  but  to  snooze  beside  that  fire 
Was  all  the  heaven  of  his  desire  .  .  . 
To  tread  no  more  this  cursed  track 
Of  crunching  cinders,  through  a  black 
And  blasted  world,  of  cinder-heaps, 
Beside  a  sleek  canal  that  creeps 
Like  crawling  ice  through  every  bone, 
Beneath  the  cruel  stars,  alone 
With  this  hell-raking  wind  that  sets 
The  cold  teeth  rattling  castanets  .  .  . 
Yea,  heaven,  indeed,  that  core  of  red 
289 


290  FIRES 

In  night's  black  heart  that  seemed  quite  dead. 

Though  still  far  off,  the  crimson  glow 

Through  his  chilled  veins  began  to  flow, 

And  fill  his  shrivelled  heart  with  heat ; 

And  as  he  dragged  his  senseless  feet, 

That  lagged  as  though  to  hold  him  back 

In  cold,  eternal  hell  of  black, 

\Vith  heaven  before  him,  blazing  red, 

The  set  eyes  staring  in  his  head 

Were  held  by  spell  of  fire  quite  blind 

To  that  black  world  that  fell  behind, 

A  cindery  wilderness  of  death ; 

As  he  drew  slowly  near  and  nearer, 

And  saw  the  ovens  glowing  clearer  — 

Low-domed  and  humming  hives  of  heat  — 

And  felt  the  blast  of  burning  breath 

That  quivered  from  each  white-hot  brick: 

Till,  blinded  by  the  blaze,  and  sick 

He  dropped  into  a  welcome  seat 

Of  warm  white  ashes,  sinking  low 

To  soak  his  body  in  the  glow 

That  shot  him  through  with  prickling  pain, 

An  eager  agony  of  fire, 

Delicious  after  the  cold  ache, 

And  scorched  his  tingling,  frosted  skin. 

Then  gradually  the  anguish  passed  ; 

And  blissfully  he  lay,  at  last, 

Without  an  unfulfilled  desire, 

His  grateful  body  drinking  in 

Warm,  blessed,  snug  forgetfulness. 

And  yet  with  staring  eyes  awake, 

As  though  no  drench  of  heat  could  slake 

His  thirst  for  fire,  he  watched  a  red 

Hot  eye  that  burned  within  a  chink 

Between  the  bricks:  while  overhead 

The  quivering  stream  of  hot,  gold  air 

Surged  up  to  quench  the  cold  starlight. 

His  brain,  too  numbed  and  dull  tp  think 

Throughout  the  day,  in  that  fierce  glare 

Awoke,  at  last,  with  startled  stare 

Of  pitiless,  insistent  sight 

That  stript  the  stark,  mean,  bitter  strife 

Of  his  poor,  broken,  wasted  life, 

Crippled  from  birth,  and  struggling  on, 


FIRES  291 

The  last,  least  shred  of  hope  long  gone, 

To  some  unknown,  black,  bitter  end. 

But,  even  as  he  looked,  his  brain 

Sank  back  to  sightless  sloth  again ; 

Then,  all  at  once,  he  seemed  to  choke; 

And  knew  it  was  the  stealthy  stife 

And  deadly  fume  of  burning  coke 

That  filled  his  lungs,  and  seemed  to  soak 

Through  every  pore,  until  the  blood 

Grew  thick  and  heavy  in  his  veins, 

And  he  could  scarcely  draw  a  breath. 

He  lay,  and  murmured  drowsily, 

With  closing  eyes:     "  If  this  be  death, 

It's  snug  and  easy  ...  let  it  come  .  .  . 

For  life  is  cold  and  hard  .  .  .  the  flood 

Is  rising  with  the  heavy  rains 

That  pour  and  pour  .  .  .  that  damned  old  drum, 

Why  ever  can't  they  let  it  be  ... 

Beat-beating,  beating,  beating,  beat  .  .  ." 

Then,  suddenly,  he  sat  upright, 

For,  close  behind  him  in  the  night, 

He  heard  a  breathing  loud  and  deep, 

And  caught  a  whiff  of  burning  leather. 

He  shook  himself  alive,  and  turned ; 

And  on  a  heap  of  ashes  white, 

O'ercome  by  the  full  blast  of  heat, 

Where  fieriest  the  dread  blaze  burned, 

He  saw  a  young  girl  stretched  in  sleep. 

He  sat  awhile  with  heavy  gaze 

Fixed  on  her  in  a  dull  amaze, 

Until  he  saw  her  scorched  boots  smoking: 

Then,  whispering  huskily:     "  She's  dying, 

While  I  look  on  and  watch  her  choking!  " 

He  roused,  and  pulled  himself  together: 

And  rose,  and  went  where  she  was  lying: 

And,  bending  o'er  the  senseless  lass, 

In  his  weak  arms  he  lifted  her; 

And  bore  her  out  beyond  the  glare, 

Beyond  the  stealthy,  stifling  gas, 

Into  the  fresh  and  eager  air: 

And  laid  her  gently  on  the  ground 

Beneath  the  cold  and  starry  sky; 

And  did  his  best  to  bring  her  round ; 

Though  still,  for  all  that  he  could  try, 


292  FIRES 

She  seemed,  with  each  deep-labouring  breath 
Just  brought  up  on  the  brink  of  death. 
He  sought,  and  found  an  icy  pool, 
Though  he  had  but  a  cap  to  fill, 
And  bathed  her  hands  and  face,  until 
The  troubled  breath  was  quieter, 
And  her  flushed  forehead  felt  quite  cool: 
And  then  he  saw  an  eyelid  stir; 
And  shivering  she  sat  up  at  last, 
And  looked  about  her  sullenly. 
"  I'm  cold  .  .  .  I'm  mortal  cold,"  she  said: 
"  What  call  had  you  to  waken  me  ? 
I  was  so  warm  and  happy,  dead  ... 
And  still  those  staring  stars!  "     Her  head 
Dropt  in  her  hands:  and  thick  and  fast 
The  tears  came  with  a  heavy  sobbing. 
He  stood  quite  helpless  while  she  cried ; 
And  watched  her  shaken  bosom  throbbing 
With  passionate,  wild,  weak  distress, 
Till  it  was  spent.     And  then  she  dried 
Her  eyes  upon  her  singed  black  dress; 
Looked  up,  and  saw  him  standing  there, 
Wondering,  and  more  than  half-afraid. 
But  now  the  nipping,  hungry  air 
Took  hold  of  her,  and  struck  fear  dead. 
She  only  felt  the  starving  sting 
That  must,  at  any  price,  be  stayed ; 
And  cried  out:     "  I  am  famishing!  " 
Then  from  his  pocket  he  took  bread 
That  he  had  been  too  weak  and  sick 
To  eat  o'ernight :  and  eager-eyed, 
She  took  it  timidly;  and  said: 
"  I  have  not  tasted  food  two  days." 
And  as  he  waited  by  her  side, 
He  watched  her  with  a  quiet  gaze; 
And  saw  her  munch  the  broken  crust 
So  gladly,  seated  in  the  dust 
Of  that  black  desert's  bitter  night, 
Beneath  the  freezing  stars,  so  white 
And  hunger-pinched:  and  at  the  sight 
Keen  pity  touched  him  to  the  quick; 
Although  he  never  said  a  word, 
Till  she  had  finished  every  crumb. 
And  then  he  led  her  to  a  seat 


FIRES  293 

A  little  closer  to  the  heat, 

But  well  beyond  the  deadly  stife. 

And  in  the  ashes,  side  by  side, 

They  sat  together,  dazed  and  dumb, 

With  eyes  upon  the  ovens'  glare, 

Each  looking  nakedly  on  life. 

And  then,  at  length,  she  sighed,  and  stirred, 

Still  staring  deep  and  dreamy-eyed 

Into  the  whitening,  steady  glow. 

With  jerky,  broken  words  and  slow, 

And  biting  at  her  finger-ends, 

She  talked  at  last:  and  spoke  out  all 

Quite  open-heartedly,  as  though 

There  were  not  any  stranger  there  — 

The  fire  and  he,  both  bosom-friends. 

She'd  left  her  home  three  months  ago  — 

She,  country-born  and  country-bred, 

Had  got  the  notion  in  her  head 

That  she'd  like  city-service  best  .  .  . 

And  so  no  country  place  could  please  .  .  . 

And  she  had  worried  without  rest 

Until,  at  last,  she  got  her  ends; 

And,  wiser  than  her  folk  and  friends, 

She  left  her  home  among  the  trees  .  .  . 

The  trees  grew  thick  for  miles  about 

Her  father's  house  .  .  .  the  forest  spread 

As  far  as  ever  you  could  see  ... 

And  it  was  green,  in  Summer,  green  .  .  . 

Since  she  had  left  her  home,  she'd  seen 

No  greenness  could  compare  with  it  ... 

And  everything  was  fresh  and  clean, 

And  not  all  smutched  and  smirched  with  smoke  .  .  . 

They  burned  no  sooty  coal  and  coke, 

But  only  wood-logs,  ash  and  oak  .  .  . 

And  by  the  fire  at  night  they'd  sit  ... 

Ah!  wouldn't  it  be  rare  and  good 

To  smell  the  sappy,  sizzling  wood, 

Once  more ;  and  listen  to  the  stream 

That  runs  just  by  the  garden-gate  .  .  . 

And  often,  in  a  Winter  spate, 

She'd  wakened  from  a  troubled  dream, 

And  lain  in  bed,  and  heard  it  roar; 

And  quaked  to  hear  it,  as  a  child  .  .  . 

It  seemed  so  angry,  and  so  wild  — 


294  FIRES 

Just  mad  to  sweep  the  house  away! 

And  now,  it  was  three  months  or  more 

Since  she  had  heard  it,  on  the  day  .  .  . 

The  day  she  left  .  .  .  and  Michael  stood  .  .  . 

He  was  a  woodman,  too,  and  he 

Worked  with  her  father  in  the  wood  .  .  . 

And  wanted  her,  she  knew  .  .  .  but  she 

Was  proud,  and  thought  herself  too  good 

To  marry  any  country  lad  .  .  . 

'Twas  queer  to  think  she'd  once  been  proud  — 

And  such  a  little  while  ago  — 

A  beggar,  wolfing  crusts!  .  .  .  The  pride 

That  made  her  quit  her  countryside 

Soon  left  her  stranded  in  the  crowd  .  .  . 

And  precious  little  pride  she  had 

To  keep  her  warm  these  freezing  days 

Since  she  had  fled  the  city-ways 

To  walk  back  home  ...  ay !  home  again : 

For,  in  the  town,  she'd  tried  in  vain, 

For  honest  work  to  earn  her  bread  .  .  . 

At  one  place,  they'd  nigh  slaved  her  dead, 

And  starved  her,  too ;  and,  when  she  left, 

Had  cheated  her  of  half  her  wage: 

But  she'd  no  means  to  stop  the  theft  .  .  . 

And  she'd  had  no  more  work  to  do  ... 

Two  months  since,  now  ...  it  seemed  an  age ! 

How  she  had  lived,  she  scarcely  knew  .  .  . 

And  still,  poor  fool,  too  proud  to  write 

To  home  for  help,  until,  at  length, 

She'd  not  a  penny  for  a  bite, 

Or  pride  enough  to  clothe  her  back  .  .  . 

So  she  was  tramping  home,  too  poor 

To  pay  the  train-fare  .  .  .  she'd  the  strength, 

If  she'd  the  food  ...  but  that  hard  track, 

And  that  cold,  cruel,  bitter  night 

Had  taken  all  the  heart  from  her  .  .  . 

If  Michael  knew,  she  felt  quite  sure  .  .  . 

For  she  would  rather  drop  stone-dead 

Than  live  as  some  ...  if  she  had  cared 

To  feed  upon  the  devil's  bread, 

She  could  have  earned  it  easily  .  .  . 

She'd  pride  enough  to  starve  instead, 

Ay,  starve,  than  fare  as  some  girls  fared  .  .  . 

But  that  was  all  behind  .      .  and  she 


FIRES  295 

Was  going  home  .  .  .  and  yet,  maybe, 
If  they'd  a  home  like  hers,  they,  too, 
Would  be  too  proud  .  .  .  she  only  knew 
The  thought  of  home  had  kept  her  straight, 
And  saved  her  ere  it  was  too  late. 
She'd  soon  be  home  again  .  .  . 

And  now 

She  sat  with  hand  upon  her  brow ; 
And  did  not  speak  again  nor  stir. 

And  as  he  heard  her  words,  his  gaze 

Still  set  upon  the  steady  glare, 

His  thoughts  turned  back  to  city-ways: 

And  he  remembered  common  sights 

That  he  had  seen  in  city  nights: 

And,  once  again,  in  early  June, 

He  wandered  through  the  midnight  street; 

And  heard  those  ever-pacing  feet 

Of  young  girls,  children  yet  in  years, 

With  gaudy  ribbons  in  their  hair, 

And  shameless  fevered  eyes  astare, 

And  slack  lips  set  in  brazen  leers, 

Who  walked  the  pavements  of  despair, 

Beneath  the  fair  full  Summer  moon  .  .  . 

Shadowed  by  worn-out,  wizened  hags, 

With  claw-hands  clutching  filthy  rags 

About  old  bosoms,  shrunk  and  thin, 

And  mouths  aleer  without  a  tooth, 

Who  dogged  them,  cursing  their  sleek  youth 

That  filched  their  custom  and  their  bread  .  .  . 

Then,  in  a  reek  of  hot  gas  light, 

He  stood  where,  through  the  Summer  night, 

Half-dozing  in  the  stifling  air, 

The  greasy  landlord,  fat  with  sin, 

Sat,  lolling  in  his  easy  chair, 

Just  half-way  up  the  brothel  stair, 

To  tax  the  earnings  they  brought  in, 

And  hearken  for  the  policeman's  tread  .  .  . 

Then,  shuddering  back  from  that  foul  place 
And  turning  from  the  ovens'  glare, 
He  looked  into  her  dreaming  face ; 
And  saw  green,  sunlit  woodlands  there, 
And  waters  flashing  in  between 
Low-drooping  boughs  of  Summer  green. 


296  FIRES 

And  as  he  looked,  still  in  a  dream 
She  murmured:     "  Michael  would,  she  knew  .  .  . 
Though  she'd  been  foolish  ...  he  was  true, 
As  true  as  steel,  and  fond  of  her  .  .  . 
,        And  then  she  sat  with  eyes  agleam 
In  dreaming  silence,  till  the  stir 
Of  cold  dawn  shivered  through  the  air: 
When,  twisting  up  her  tumbled  hair, 
She  rose,  and  said,  she  must  be  gone. 
Though  she'd  still  far  to  go,  the  day 
Would  see  her  well  upon  her  way  .  .  . 
And  she  had  best  be  jogging  on, 
While  she'd  the  strength  .  .  .  and  so,  "  Good-bye. 

And  as,  beneath  the  paling  sky, 

He  trudged  again  the  cinder-track 

That  stretched  before  him,  dead  and  black, 

He  muttered:     "  It's  a  chance  the  light 

Has  found  me  living  still  .  .  .  and  she  — 

She,  too  .  .  .  and  Michael  .  .  .  and  through  me! 

God  knows  whom  I  may  wake  to-night." 


THE  DANCING  SEAL 

When  we  were  building  Skua  Light  — 
The  first  men  who  had  lived  a  night 
U.pon  that  deep-sea  Isle  — 
As  soon  as  chisel  touched  the  stone, 
The  friendly  seals  would  come  ashore; 
And  sit  and  watch  us  all  the  while, 
As  though  they'd  not  seen  men  before; 
And  so,  poor  beasts,  had  never  known 
Men  had  the  heart  to  do  them  harm. 
They'd  little  cause  to  feel  alarm 
With  us,  for  we  were  glad  to  find 
Some  friendliness  in  that  strange  sea; 
Only  too  pleased  to  let  them  be 
And  sit  as  long  as  they'd  a  mind 
To  watch  us:  for  their  eyes  were  kind 
Like  women's  eyes,  it  seemed  to  me. 
So,  hour  on  hour,  they  sat :  I  think 
They  liked  to  hear  the  chisels'  clink: 
And  when  the  boy  sang  loud  and  clear, 
They  scrambled  closer  in  to  hear  ; 
And  if  he  whistled  sweet  and  shrill, 
The  queer  beasts  shuffled  nearer  still: 
But  every  sleek  and  sheeny  skin 
Was  mad  to  hear  his  violin. 

When,  work  all  over  for  the  day, 
He'd  take  his  fiddle  down  and  play 
His  merry  tunes  beside  the  sea, 
Their  eyes  grew  brighter  and  more  bright, 
And  burned  and  twinkled  merrily: 
And  as  I  watched  them  one  still  night, 
And  saw  their  eager  sparkling  eyes, 
I  felt  those  lively  seals  would  rise 
Some  shiny  night  ere  he  could  know, 
And  dance  about  him,  heel  and  toe, 
Unto  the  fiddle's  heady  tune. 
297 


298  FIRES 

And  at  the  rising  of  the  moon, 
Half-daft,  I  took  my  stand  before 
A  young  seal  lying  on  the  shore ; 
And  called  on  her  to  dance  with  me. 
And  it  seemed  hardly  strange  when  she 
Stood  up  before  me  suddenly, 
And  shed  her  black  and  sheeny  skin ; 
And  smiled,  all  eager  to  begin  .  .  . 
And  I  was  dancing,  heel  and  toe, 
With  a  young  maiden  white  as  snow, 
Unto  a  crazy  violin. 

We  danced  beneath  the  dancing  moon 
All  night,  beside  the  dancing  sea, 
With  tripping  toes  and  skipping  heels: 
»     And  all  about  us  friendly  seals 

Like  Christian  folk  were  dancing  reels 

Unto  the  fiddle's  endless  tune 

That  kept  on  spinning  merrily 

As  though  it  never  meant  to  stop. 

And  never  once  the  snow-white  maid 

A  moment  stayed 

To  take  a  breath, 

Though  I  was  fit  to  drop: 

And  while  those  wild  eyes  challenged  me, 

I  knew  as  well  as  well  could  be 

I  must  keep  step  with  that  young  girl, 

Though  we  should  dance  to  death. 

Then  with  a  skirl 

The  fiddle  broke: 

The  moon  went  out:  % 

The  sea  stopped  dead: 

And,  in  a  twinkling,  all  the  rout 

Of  dancing  folk  had  fled  ... 

And  in  the  chill  bleak  dawn  I  woke 

Upon  the  naked  rock,  alone. 

They've  brought  me  far  from  Skua  Isle 
I  laugh  to  think  they  do  not  know 
That  as,  all  day,  I  chip  the  stone, 
Among  my  fellows  here  inland, 
I  smell  the  sea-wrack  on  the  shore  .  .  . 
And  see  her  snowy-tossing  hand, 


FIRES  299 


And  meet  again  her  merry  smile  .  .  . 
And  dream  I'm  dancing  all  the  while, 
I'm  dancing  ever,  heel  and  toe, 
With  a  seal-maiden,  white  as  snow, 
On  that  moonshiny  Island-strand, 
For  ever  and  for  evermore. 


THE  SLAG 

Among  bleak  hills  of  mounded  slag  they  walked, 

'Neath  sullen  evening  skies  that  seemed  to  sag 

O'er-burdened  by  the  belching  smoke,  and  lie 

Upon  their  aching  foreheads,  dense  and  dank, 

Till  both  felt  youth  within  them  fail  and  flag  — 

Even  as  the  flame  which  shot  a  fiery  rag 

A  fluttering  moment  through  the  murky  sky 

Above  the  black  blast-furnaces,  then  sank 

Again  beneath  the  iron  bell  close-bound  — 

And  it  was  all  that  they  could  do  to  drag 

Themselves  along,  'neath  that  dead-weight  of  smoke, 

Over  the  cinder-blasted,  barren  ground. 

Though  fitfully  and  fretfully  she  talked, 

He  never  turned  his  eyes  to  her,  or  spoke: 

And  as  he  slouched  with  her  along  the  track 

That  skirted  a  stupendous,  lowering  mound, 

With  listless  eyes,  and  o'er-strained  sinews  slack, 

She  bit  a  petted,  puckered  lip,  and  frowned 

To  think  she  ever  should  be  walking  out 

With  this  tongue-tied,  slow-witted,  hulking  lout, 

As  cold  and  dull  and  lifeless  as  the  slag. 

On  edge,  and  over-wrought  by  the  crampt  day 
Of  crouched,  close  stitching  at  her  dull  machine, 
It  seemed  to  her  a  girl  of  seventeen 
Should  have,  at  least,  an  hour  of  careless  talking  — 
Should  have,  at  least,  an  hour  of  life,  out  walking 
Beside  a  lover,  mettlesome  and  gay  — 
Not  through  her  too  short  freedom  doomed  to  lag 
Beside  a  sparkless  giant,  glum  and  grim, 
Till  all  her  eager  youth  should  waste  away. 
Yet,  even  as  she  looked  askance  at  him  — 
Well-knit,  big-thewed,  broad-chested,  steady-eyed  — 
She  dimly  knew  of  depths  she  could  not  sound 
In  this  strong  lover,  silent  at  her  side: 
And,  once  again,  her  heart  was  touched  with  pride 
To  think  that  he  was  hers,  this  strapping  lad  — 
.300 


FIRES  301 

Black-haired,  close-cropt,  clean-skinned,  and  neatly 

clad  .  .  . 

His  crimson  neckerchief,  so  smartly  tied  — 
And  hers  alone,  and  more  than  all  she  had 
In  all  the  world  to  her  .  .  .  and  yet,  so  grave ! 
If  he  would  only  show  that  he  was  glad 
To  be  with  her  —  a  gleam,  a  spark  of  fire, 
A  spurt  of  flame  to  shoot  into  the  night, 
A  moment  through  the  murky  heavens  to  wave 
An  eager  beacon  of  enkindling  light 
In  answer  to  her  young  heart's  quick  desire! 

Yet,  though  he  walked  with  dreaming  eyes  agaze, 

As,  deep  within  a  mound  of  slag,  a  core 

Of  unseen  fire  may  smoulder  many  days, 

Till  suddenly  the  whole  heap  glow  ablaze, 

That  seemed,  but  now,  dead  cinder,  grey  and  cold, 

Life  smouldered  in  his  heart.     The  fire  he  fed 

Day-long  in  the  tall  furnace  just  ahead 

From  that  frail  gallery  slung  against  the  sky 

Had  burned  through  all  his  being,  till  the  ore 

Glowed  in  him.     Though  no  surface-stream  of  gold, 

Quick-molten  slag  of  speech  was  his  to  spill 

Unceasingly,  the  burning  metal  still 

Seethed  in  him,  from  the  broken  furnace-side 

To  burst  at  any  moment  in  a  tide 

Of  white-hot  molten  iron  o'er  the  mould  .  .  . 

But  still  he  spoke  no  word  as  they  strolled  on 
Into  the  early-gathering  Winter  night : 
And,  as  she  watched  the  leaping  furnace-light, 
She  had  no  thought  of  smouldering  fires  unseen  .  .  . 
The  daylong  clattering  whirr  of  her  machine 
Hummed  in  her  ears  again  —  the  straining  thread 
And  stabbing  needle  starting  through  her  head  — 
Until  the  last  dull  gleam  of  day  was  gone.  .  .  . 

When,  all  at  once,  upon  the  right, 
A  crackling  crash,  a  blinding  flare  .  .  . 
A  shower  of  cinders  through  the  air  ... 
A  grind  of  blocks  of  slag  aslide  .  .  . 
And,  far  above  them,  in  the  night, 
The  looming  heap  had  opened  wide 
About  a  fiery,  gaping  pit  ... 


302  FIRES 

And,  startled  and  aghast  at  it, 
With  clasping  hands  they  stood  astare, 
And  gazed  upon  the  awful  glare : 
And,  as  she  felt  him  clutch  her  hand, 
She  seemed  to  know  her  heart's  desire, 
For  evermore  with  him  to  stand 
In  that  enkindling  blaze  of  fire  .  .  . 
When,  suddenly,  he  left  her  side ; 
And  started  scrambling  up  the  heap: 
And  looking  up,  with  stifled  cry, 
She  saw,  against  the  glowing  sky, 
Almost  upon  the  pit's  red  brink, 
A  little  lad,  stock-still  with  fright 
Before  the  blazing  pit  of  dread 
Agape  before  him  in  the  night, 
Where,  playing  castles  on  the  height 
Since  noon,  he'd  fallen,  spent,  asleep 
And  dreaming  he  was  home  in  bed  .  .  . 

With  brain  afire,  too  strained  to  think, 

She  watched  her  lover  climb  and  leap 

From  jag  to  jag 

Of  broken  slag  .  .  . 

And  still  he  only  seemed  to  creep  .  .  . 

She  felt  that  he  would  never  reach 

That  little  lad,  though  he  should  climb 

Until  the  very  end  of  time  .  .  . 

And,  as  she  looked,  the  burning  breach 

Gaped  suddenly  more  wide  .  .  . 

The  slag  again  began  to  slide 

And  crash  into  the  pit, 

Until  the  dazed  lad's  feet 

Stood  on  the  edge  of  it. 

She  saw  him  reel  and  fall  .  .  . 

And  thought  him  done  for  ...  then 

Her  lover,  brave  and  tall, 

Against  the  glare  and  heat, 

A  very  fire-bright  god  of  men ! 

He  stooped  .  .  .  and  now  she  knew  the  lad 

Was  safe  with  Robert,  after  all. 

And  while  she  watched,  a  throng  of  folk 

Attracted  by  the  crash  and  flare, 

Had  gathered  round,  though  no  one  spoke ; 


FIRES  303 

But  all  stood  terror-stricken  there, 
With  lifted  eyes  and  indrawn  breath, 
Until  the  lad  was  snatched  from  death 
Upon  the  very  pit's  edge,  when, 
As  Robert  picked  him  up,  and  turned, 
A  sigh  ran  through  the  crowd ;  and  fear 
Gave  place  to  joy,  as  cheer  on  cheer 
Sang  through  the  kindled  air  ... 

But  still  she  never  uttered  word, 
As  though  she  neither  saw  nor  heard; 
Till  as,  at  last,  her  lad  drew  near, 
She  saw  him  bend  with  tender  care 
Over  the  sobbing  child  who  lay 
Safe  in  his  arms,  and  hug  him  tight 
Against  his  breast  —  his  brow  alight 
With  eager,  loving  eyes  that  burned 
In  his  transfigured  face  aflame  .  .  . 
And  even  when  the  parents  came 
It  almost  seemed  that  he  was  loth 
To  yield  them  up  their  little  son ; 
As  though  the  lad  were  his  by  right 
Of  rescue,  from  the  pit's  edge  won. 

Then,  as  his  eyes  met  hers,  she  felt 

An  answering  thrill  of  tenderness 

Run,  quickening,  through  her  breast;  and  both 

Stood  quivering  there,  with  envious  eyes, 

And  stricken  with  a  strange  distress, 

As  quickly  homeward  through  the  night 

The  happy  parents  bore  their  boy  .  .  . 

And  then,  about  her  reeling  bright, 
The  whole  night  seemed  to  her  to  melt 
In  one  fierce,  fiery  flood  of  joy. 


DEVIL'S  EDGE 

All  night  I  lay  on  Devil's  Edge, 

Along  an  overhanging  ledge 

Between  the  sky  and  sea: 

And  as  I  rested  'waiting  sleep, 

The  windless  sky  and  soundless  deep 

In  one  dim,  blue  infinity 

Of  starry  peace  encompassed  me. 

And  I  remembered,  drowsily, 

How  'mid  the  hills  last  night  I'd  lain 

Beside  a  singing  moorland  burn ; 

And  waked  at  dawn,  to  feel  the  rain 

Fall  on  my  face,  as  on  the  fern 

That  drooped  about  my  heather-bed: 

And  how  by  noon  the  wind  had  blown 

The  last  grey  shred  from  out  the  sky, 

And  blew  my  homespun  jacket  dry, 

As  I  stood  on  the  topmost  stone 

That  crowns  the  cairn  on  Hawkshaw  Head, 

And  caught  a  gleam  of  far-off  sea ; 

And  heard  the  wind  sing  in  the  bent 

Like  those  far  waters  calling  me: 

When,  my  heart  answering  to  the  call, 

I  followed  down  the  seaward  stream, 

By  silent  pool  and  singing  fall; 

Till  with  a  quiet,  keen  content, 

I  watched  the  sun,  a  crimson  ball, 

Shoot  through  grey  seas  a  fiery  gleam, 

Then  sink  in  opal  deeps  from  sight. 


And  with  the  coming  on  of  night, 
The  wind  had  dropped:  and  as  I  lay, 
Retracing  all  the  happy  day, 
And  gazing  long  and  dreamily 
Across  the  dim,  unsounding  sea, 
Over  the  far  horizon  came 
A  sudden  sail  of  amber  flame; 
304 


FIRES  305 

And  soon  the  new  moon  rode  on  high 
Through  cloudless  deeps  of  crystal  sky. 

Too  holy  seemed  the  night  for  sleep: 

And  yet  I  must  have  slept,  it  seems ; 

For,  suddenly,  I  woke  to  hear 

A  strange  voice  singing,  shrill  and  clear, 

Down  in  a  gully  black  and  deep 

That  cleft  the  beetling  crag  in  twain. 

It  seemed  the  very  voice  of  dreams 

That  drive  hag-ridden  souls  in  fear 

Through  echoing,  unearthly  vales, 

To  plunge  in  black,  slow-crawling  streams, 

Seeking  to  drown  that  cry,  in  vain  .  .  . 

Or  some  sea  creature's  voice  that  wails 

Through  blind,  white  banks  of  fog  unlifting 

To  God-forgotten  sailors  drifting 

Rudderless  to  death  .  .  . 

And  as  I  heard, 

Though  no  wind  stirred, 

An  icy  breath 

Was  in  my  hair  .  .  . 

And  clutched  my  heart  with  cold  despair. 

But,  as  the  wild  song  died  away, 

There  came  a  faltering  break 

That  shivered  to  a  sobbing  fall; 

And  seemed  half-human,  after  all  ... 

And  yet,  what  foot  could  find  a  track 
In  that  deep  gully,  sheer  and  black  .  .  . 
And  singing  wildly  in  the  night! 
So,  wondering,  I  lay  awake, 
Until  the  coming  of  the  light 
Brought  day's  familiar  presence  back. 

Down  by  the  harbour-mouth  that  day, 
A  fisher  told  the  tale  to  me. 
Three  months  before,  while  out  at  sea, 
Young  Philip  Burn  was  lost,  though  how, 
None  knew,  and  none  would  ever  know. 
The  boat  becalmed  at  noonday  lay  ... 
And  not  a  ripple  on  the  sea  ... 
And  Philip  standing  in  the  bow, 
When  his  six  comrades  went  below 


3o6  FIRES 

To  sleep  away  an  hour  or  so, 

Dog-tired  with  working  day  and  night, 

While  he  kept  watch  .  .  :  and  not  a  sound 

They  heard,  until  at  set  of  sun 

They  woke ;  and  coming  up,  they  found 

The  deck  was  empty,  Philip  gone  .  .  . 

Yet  not  another  boat  in  sight  .  .  . 

And  not  a  ripple  on  the  sea. 

How  he  had  vanished,  none  could  tell. 

They  only  knew  the  lad  was  dead 

They'd  left  but  now,  alive  and  well  .  .  . 

And  he,  poor  fellow,  newly-wed  .  .  . 

And  when  they  broke  the  news  to  her, 

She  spoke  no  word  to  any  one: 

But  sat  all  day,  and  would  not  stir  — 

Just  staring,  staring  in  the  fire, 

With  eyes  that  never  seemed  to  tire; 

Until,  at  last,  the  day  was  done, 

And  darkness  came;  when  she  would  rise, 

And  seek  the  door  with  queer,  wild  eyes; 

And  wander  singing  all  the  night 

Unearthly  songs  beside  the  sea : 

But  always  the  first  blink  of  light 

Would  find  her  back  at  her  own  door. 

'Twas  Winter  when  I  came  once  more 
To  that  old  village  by  the  shore : 
And  as,  at  night,  I  climbed  the  street, 
I  heard  a  singing,  low  and  sweet, 
Within  a  cottage  near  at  hand : 
And  I  was  glad  awhile  to  stand 
And  listen  by  the  glowing  pane: 
And  as  I  hearkened,  that  sweet  strain 
Brought  back  the  night  when  I  had  lain 
Awake  on  Devil's  Edge  .  .  . 
And  now  I  knew  the  voice  again, 
So  different,  free  of  pain  and  fear  — 
Its  terror  turned  to  tenderness  — 
And  yet  the  same  voice  none  the  less, 
Though  singing  now  so  true  and  clear: 
And  drawing  nigh  the  window-ledge, 
I  watched  the  mother  sing  to  rest 
The  baby  snuggling  to  her  breast. 


THE  LILAC  TREE 

"  I  planted  her  the  lilac  tree 
Upon  our  wedding  day: 
But  when  the  time  of  blossom  came, 
With  her  dead  babe  she  lay  ... 
And  as  I  stood  beside  the  bed, 
The  scent  of  lilac  filled  the  room: 
And  always  when  I  smell  the  bloom, 
I  think  upon  the  dead." 

He  spoke:  and,  speaking,  sauntered  on, 

The  young  girl  by  his  side: 

And  then  they  talked  no  more  of  death, 

But  only  of  the  happy  things 

That  burst  their  buds,  and  spread  their  wings, 

And  break  in  song  at  Whitsuntide, 

That  burst  to  bloom  at  Whitsuntide, 

And  bring  the  summer  in  a  breath. 

And  as  they  talked,  the  young  girl's  life 

Broke  into  bloom  and  song; 

And,  one  with  all  the  happy  things 

That  burst  their  buds,  and  spread  their  wings, 

Her  very  blood  was  singing, 

And  at  her  pulses  ringing; 

Life  tingled  through  her,  sweet  and  strong, 

From  secret  sources  springing: 

And,  all  at  once,  a  quickening  strife 

Of  hopes  and  fears  was  in  her  heart, 

Where  only  wondering  joy  had  been ; 

And,  kindling  with  a  sudden  light, 

Her  eyes  had  sight 

Of  things  unseen: 

And,  in  a  flash,  a  woman  grown, 

With  pangs  of  knowledge,  fierce  and  keen, 

She  knew  strange  things  unknown. 

A  year  went  by:  at  Whitsuntide, 
He  brought  her  home,  a  bride. 
307 


308  FIRES 

He  planted  her  no  lilac  tree 

Upon  their  wedding  day : 

And  strange  distress  came  over  her, 

As  on  the  bed  she  lay: 

For  as  he  stood  beside  the  bed, 

The  scent  of  lilac  filled  the  room. 

Her  heart  knew  well  he  smelt  the  bloom, 

And  thought  upon  the  dead. 

Yet,  she  was  glad  to  be  his  wife: 

And  when  the  blossom-time  was  past, 

Her  days  no  more  were  overcast; 

And  deep  she  drank  of  life: 

And,  thronged  with  happy  household  cares, 

Her  busy  days  went  pleasantly: 

Her  foot  was  light  upon  the  stairs ; 

And  every  room  rang  merrily, 

And  merrily,  and  merrily, 

With  song  and  mirth,  for  unto  her 

His  heart  seemed  hers,  and  hers  alone: 

Until  new  dreams  began  to  stir 

Her  wondering  breast  with  bliss  unknown 

Of  some  new  miracle  to  be: 

And,  though  she  moved  more  quietly, 

And  seldom  sang,  yet,  happily, 

From  happy  dawn  to  happy  night 

The  mother's  eyes  shone  bright. 

But  as  her  time  drew  near, 
Her  heart  was  filled  with  fear: 
And  when  the  lilac  burst  to  bloom, 
And  brought  the  Summer  in  a  breath, 
A  presence  seemed  to  fill  the  room, 
And  fill  her  heart  with  death: 
And  as  her  husband  lay  asleep, 
Beside  her,  on  the  bed, 
Into  her  breast  the  thought  would  creep 
That  he  was  dreaming  of  the  dead. 
And  all  the  mother's  heart  in  her 
Was  mad  with  mother-jealousy 
Of  that  sweet  scented  lilac  tree; 
And,  blind  with  savage  ecstasy, 
Night  after  night  she  lay, 
Until  the  blink  of  day, 
With  staring  eyes  and  wild, 


FIRES  309 

Half-crazy,  lest  the  lilac  tree 

Should  come  betwixt  him  and  his  child. 

By  day,  her  mother-tenderness 

Was  turned  to  brooding  bitterness, 

Whene'er  she  looked  upon  the  bloom: 

And,  if  she  slept  at  all  at  night, 

Her  heart  would  waken  in  affright 

To  smell  the  lilac  in  the  gloom: 

And  when  it  rained,  it  seemed  to  her, 

The  fresh  keen  scent  was  bitterer: 

Though  when  the  blaze  of  morning  came, 

And  flooded  all  the  room, 

The  perfume  burnt  her  heart  like  flame. 

As,  in  the  dark, 
One  night  she  lay, 
A  dark  thought  shot 
Through  her  hot  heart: 
And,  from  a  spark 
Of  smouldering  wrong, 
Hate  burst  to  fire. 
Now,  quaking  cold, 
Now,  quivering  hot, 
With  breath  indrawn, 
Through  time  untold, 
She  'waited  dawn 
That  lagged  too  long 
For  her  desire. 

And  when,  at  last,  at  break  of  day, 

Her  husband  rose,  and  went  his  way 

About  his  daily  toil, 

She,  too,  arose,  and  dressed, 

With  frenzy  in  her  breast; 

And  stole  downstairs,  and  took  a  spade, 

And  digged  about  the  lilac  roots, 

And  laid  them  bare  of  soil: 

Then,  with  a  jagged  blade, 

She  hacked  and  slashed  the  naked  roots  — 

She  hacked  and  slashed  with  frantic  hand, 

Until  the  lilac  scarce  might  stand; 

And  then  again  the  soil  she  laid 

About  the  bleeding  roots  — 

(It  seemed  to  her,  the  sap  ran  red 


3io  FIRES 

About  the  writhing  roots!) 

But  now  her  heart  was  eased  of  strife, 

Since  she  had  sapped  the  lilac's  life; 

And,  frenzy-spent,  she  dropped  the  knife: 

Then  dizzily  she  crept  to  bed, 

And  lay  all  day  as  one  nigh  dead. 

That  night  a  sudden  storm  awoke, 

And  struck  the  slumbering  earth  to  life: 

And  as  the  heavens  in  thunder  broke, 

She  lay  exulting  in  the  strife 

Of  flash  and  peal, 

And  gust  and  rain; 

For  now,  she  thought:  the  lightning-stroke 

Will  lay  the  lilac  low; 

And  he  need  never  know 

How  I  ...  and  then,  again, 

Her  heart  went  cold  with  dread, 

As  she  remembered  that  the  knife 

Still  lay  beneath  the  lilac  tree  .  .  . 

A  blinding  flash, 

A  lull,  a  crash, 

A  rattling  peal  .  .  . 

And  suddenly, 

She  felt  her  senses  reel : 

And,  crying  out:     "  The  knife!     The  knife!  " 

Her  pangs  were  on  her  .  .  . 

Dawn  was  red, 

When  she  awoke  upon  the  bed 
To  life  —  and  knew  her  babe  was  dead. 
She  rose:  and  cried  out  fearfully: 
"  The  lilac  tree !     The  lilac  tree !  " 
Then  fell  back  in  a  swoon. 

But,  when  she  waked  again  at  noon, 
And  looked  upon  her  sleeping  child; 
And  laid  her  hand  upon  its  head, 
No  more  the  mother's  heart  was  wild, 
For  hate  and  fear  were  dead ; 
And  all  her  brooding  bitterness 
Broke  into  tears  of  tenderness. 

And  not  a  word  the  father  said 
About  the  lilac,  lying  dead. 


FIRES  311 


A  week  went  by,  and  Whitsuntide 

Came  round :  and  as  she  lay, 

And  looked  upon  the  newborn  day, 

Her  husband,  lying  by  her  side, 

Spoke  to  her  very  tenderly: 

"  Wife,  'tis  again  our  wedding  day, 

And  we  will  plant  a  lilac  tree 

In  memory  of  the  babe  that  died." 

They  planted  a  white  lilac  tree 

Upon  their  wedding  day: 

And,  when  the  time  of  blossom  came, 

With  kindly  hearts  they  lay. 

The  sunlight  streamed  upon  the  bed: 

The  scent  of  lilac  filled  the  room : 

And,  as  they  smelt  the  breathing  bloom, 

They  thought  .upon  the  dead. 


THE  OLD  MAN 

The  boat  put  in  at  dead  of  night; 

And  when  I  reached  the  house,  'twas  sleeping  dark. 

I  knew  my  gentlest  tap  would  be  a  spark 

To  set  my  home  alight: 

My  mother  ever  listening  in  her  sleep 

For  my  returning  step,  would  leap 

Awake  with  welcome ;  and  my  father's  eyes 

Would  twinkle  merrily  to  greet  me; 

And  my  young  sister  would  run  down  to  meet  me 

With  sleepy  sweet  surprise. 

And  yet,  awhile  I  lingered 

Upon  the  threshold,  listening; 

And  watched  the  cold  stars  glistening, 

And  seemed  to  hear  the  deep 

Calm  breathing  of  the  house  asleep  — 

In  easy  sleep,  so  deep,  I  almost  feared  to  break  it 

And,  even  as  I  fingered 

The  knocker,  loth  to  wake  it, 

Like  some  uncanny  inkling 

Of  news  from  otherwhere, 

I  felt  a  cold  breath  in  my  hair, 

As  though,  with  chin  upon  my  shoulder, 

One  waited  hard,  upon  my  heel, 

With  pricking  eyes  of  steel, 

Though  well  I  knew  that  not  a  soul  was  there. 

Until,  at  last,  grown  bolder, 
I  rapped ;  and  in  a  twinkling, 
The  house  was  all  afire 
With  welcome  in  the  night: 
First,  in  my  mother's  room,  a  light ; 
And  then,  her  foot  upon  the  stair; 
A  bolt  shot  back ;  a  candle's  flare  ; 
A  happy  cry;  and  to  her  breast 
She  hugged  her  heart's  desire, 
And  hushed  her  fears  to  rest. 
312 


FIRES  313 

Then,  shivering  in  the  keen  night  air, 
My  sleepy  sister  laughing  came; 
And  drew  us  in:  and  stirred  to  flame 
The  smouldering  kitchen-fire ;  and  set 
The  kettle  on  the  kindling  red: 
And  as  I  watched  the  homely  blaze, 
And  thought  of  wandering  days 
With  sharp  regret, 
I  missed  my  father:  then  I  heard 
How  he  was  still  a-bed ; 
And  had  been  ailing,  for  a  day  or  so; 
But  now  was  waking,  if  I'd  go  ... 
My  foot  already  on  the  stair, 
In  answer  to  my  mother's  word 
I  turned ;  and  saw  in  dull  amaze, 
Behind  her,  as  she  stood  all  unaware, 
An  old  man  sitting  in  my  father's  chair. 

A  strange  old  man  .  .  .  yet,  as  I  looked  at  him, 

Before  my  eyes  a  dim 

Remembrance  seemed  to  swim 

Of  some  old  man,  who'd  lurked  about  the  boat, 

While  we  were  still  at  sea; 

And  who  had  crouched  beside  me,  at  the  oar, 

As  we  had  rowed  ashore ; 

Though,  at  the  time,  I'd  taken  little  note, 

I  felt  I'd  seen  that  strange  old  man  before: 

But  how  he'd  come  to  follow  me, 

Unknown  .  .  . 

And  to  be  sitting  there  .  .  . 

Then  I  recalled  the  cold  breath  in  my  hair, 

When  I  had  stood,  alone, 

Before  the  bolted  door. 

And  now  my  mother,  wondering  sore 
To  see  me  stare  and  stare, 
So  strangely,  at  an  empty  chair, 
Turned,  too;  and  saw  the  old  man  there. 

And  as  she  turned,  he  slowly  raised 

His  drooping  head, 

And  looked  upon  her  with  her  husband's  eyes. 

She  stood,  a  moment,  dazed 

And  watched  him  slowly  rise, 


3H  FIRES 

As  though  to  come  to  her : 
Then,  with  a  cry,  she  sped 
Upstairs,  ere  I  could  stir. 

Still  dazed,  I  let  her  go,  alone: 
I  heard  her  footsteps  overhead : 
I  heard  her  drop  beside  the  bed, 
With  low  forsaken  moan. 

Yet,  I  could  only  stare  and  stare 
Upon  my  father's  empty  chair. 


THE  HARE 

My  hands  were  hot  upon  a  hare, 
Half -strangled,  struggling  in  a  snare  — 
My  knuckles  at  her  warm  wind-pipe  — 
When  suddenly,  her  eyes  shot  back, 
Big,  fearful,  staggering  and  black: 
And,  ere  I  knew,  my  grip  was  slack; 
And  I  was  clutching  empty  air, 
Half-mad,  half-glad  at  my  lost  luck  .  .  . 
When  I  awoke  beside  the  stack. 

'Twas  just  the  minute  when  the  snipe, 

As  though  clock-wakened  on  the  stroke 

An  hour  ere  dawn,  dart  in  and  out 

Mist-wreaths  in  every  syke  asoak, 

And  flutter  wheeling  round  about, 

And  drumming  out  the  Summer  night. 

I  lay  star-gazing  yet  a  bit; 

Then,  chilly-skinned,  I  sat  upright, 

To  shrug  the  shivers  from  my  back ; 

And  drawing  out  a  straw  to  suck, 

My  teeth  nipped  through  it  at  a  bite  .  .  . 

The  liveliest  lad  is  out  of  pluck 

An  hour  ere  dawn  —  a  tame  cock-sparrow  - 

When  cold  stars  shiver  through  his  marrow. 

And  wet  mist  soaks  his  mother-wit. 

But  as  the  snipe  dropped,  one  by  one, 
And  one  by  one  the  stars  blinked  out, 
I  knew  'twould  only  need  the  sun 
To  send  the  shudders  right  about: 
And,  as  the  clear  East  faded  white, 
I  watched  and  wearied  for  the  sun  — 
The  jolly,  welcome,  friendly  sun  — 
The  sleepy  sluggard  of  a  sun 
That  still  kept  snoozing  out  of  sight, 
Though  well  he  knew  the  night  was  done  . 
And,  after  all,  he  caught  me  dozing, 
And  leapt  up,  laughing,  in  the  sky 
Just  as  my  lazy  eyes  were  closing: 


3i6  FIRES 

And  it  was  good  as  gold  to  lie 
Full-length  among  the  straw,  and  feel 
The  day  wax  warmer  every  minute, 
As,  glowing  glad,  from  head  to  heel, 
I  soaked  and  rolled  rejoicing  in  it  ... 
When  from  the  corner  of  my  eye, 
Upon  a  heathery  knowe  hard-by, 
With  long  lugs  cocked,  and  eyes  astare, 
Yet  all  serene,  I  saw  a  hare. 

Upon  my  belly  in  the  straw 

I  lay,  and  watched  her  sleek  her  fur, 

As,  daintily,  with  well-licked  paw, 

She  washed  her  face  and  neck  and  ears: 

Then,  clean  and  comely  in  the  sun, 

She  kicked  her  heels  up,  full  of  fun, 

As  if  she  did  not  care  a  pin 

Though  she  should  jump  out  of  her  skin, 

And  leapt  and  lolloped,  free  of  fears, 

Until  my  heart  frisked  round  with  her. 

"  And  yet,  if  I  but  lift  my  head, 
You'll  scamper  off,  young  Puss,"  I  said. 
"  Still,  I  can't  lie,  and  watch  you  play, 
Upon  my  belly  half-the-day. 
The  Lord  alone  knows  where  I'm  going: 
But  I  had  best  be  getting  there. 
Last  night  I  loosed  you  from  the  snare  — 
Asleep,  or  waking,  who's  for  knowing  — 
So  I  shall  thank  you  now  for  showing 
Which  art  to  take  to  bring  me  where 
My  luck  awaits  me.     When  you're  ready 
To  start,  I'll  follow  on  your  track. 
Though  slow  of  foot,  I'm  sure  and  steady 
She  pricked  her  ears,  then  set  them  back ; 
And  like  a  shot  was  out  of  sight: 
And,  with  a  happy  heart  and  light, 
As  quickly  I  was  on  my  feet; 
And  following  the  way  she  went, 
Keen  as  a  lurcher  on  the  scent, 
Across  the  heather  and  the  bent, 
Across  the  quaking  moss  and  peat. 
Of  course,  I  lost  her  soon  enough, 
For  moorland  tracks  are  steep  and  rough; 
And  hares  are  made  of  nimbler  stuff 


FIRES  317 

Than  any  lad  of  seventeen, 

However  lanky-legged  and  tough, 

However,  kestrel-eyed  and  keen: 

And  I'd  at  last  to  stop  and  eat 

The  little  bit  of  bread  and  meat 

Left  in  my  pocket  overnight. 

So,  in  a  hollow,  snug  and  green, 

I  sat  beside  a  burn,  and  dipped 

The  dry  bread  in  an  icy  pool; 

And  munched  a  breakfast  fresh  and  cool  .  .  . 

And  then  sat  gaping  like  a  fool  .  .  . 

For,  right  before  my  very  eyes, 

With  lugs  acock,  and  eyes  astare, 

I  saw  again  the  selfsame  hare. 

So  up  I  jumped,  and  off  she  slipped: 

And  I  kept  sight  of  her  until 

I  stumbled  in  a  hole,  and  tripped ; 

And  came  a  heavy,  headlong  spill: 

And  she,  ere  I'd  the  wit  to  rise, 

Was  o'er  the  hill,  and  out  of  sight: 

And  sore  and  shaken  with  the  tumbling, 

And  sicker  at  my  foot  for  stumbling, 

I  cursed  my  luck,  and  went  on,  grumbling, 

The  way  her  flying  heels  had  fled. 

The  sky  was  cloudless  overhead ; 

And  just  alive  with  larks  asinging: 

And,  in  a  twinkling,  I  was  swinging 

Across  the  windy  hills,  lighthearted. 

A  kestrel  at  my  footstep  started, 

Just  pouncing  on  a  frightened  mouse, 

And  hung  o'erhead  with  wings  a-hover : 

Through  rustling  heath  an  adder  darted : 

A  hundred  rabbits  bobbed  to  cover : 

A  weasel,  sleek  and  rusty-red, 

Popped  out  of  sight  as  quick  as  winking: 

I  saw  a  grizzled  vixen  slinking 

Behind  a  clucking  brood  of  grouse 

That  rose  and  cackled  at  my  coming: 

And  all  about  my  way  were  flying 

The  peewit,  with  their  slow  wings  creaking: 

And  little  grey  snipe  darted,  drumming: 

And  now  and  then  a  golden  plover 

Or  redshank  piped  with  reedy  whistle. 


3i8  FIRES 

But  never  shaken  bent  or  thistle 
Betrayed  the  quarry  I  was  seeking 
And  not  an  instant,  anywhere 
Did  I  clap  eyes  upon  a  hare. 

So,  travelling  still,  the  twilight  caught  me : 

And  as  I  stumbled  on,  I  muttered : 

"  A  deal  of  luck  the  hare  has  brought  me! 

The  wind  and  I  must  spend  together 

A  hungry  night  among  the  heather. 

If  I'd  her  here  .  .  ."     And  as  I  uttered, 

I  tripped,  and  heard  a  frightened  squeal ; 

And  dropped  my  hands  in  time  to  feel 

The  hare  just  bolting  'twixt  my  feet. 

She  slipped  my  clutch :  and  I  stood  there 

And  cursed  that  devil-littered  hare, 

That  left  me  stranded  in  the  dark 

In  that  wide  waste  of  quaggy  peat 

Beneath  black  night  without  a  spark : 

When,  looking  up,  I  saw  a  flare 

Upon  a  far-off  hill,  and  said : 

"  By  God,  the  heather  is  afire ! 

It's  mischief  at  this  time  of  year  .  .  ." 

And  then,  as  one  bright  flame  shot  higher, 

And  booths  and  vans  stood  out  quite  clear; 

My  wits  came  back  into  my  head : 

And  I  remembered  Brough  Hill  Fair. 

And,  as  I  stumbled  towards  the  glare, 

I  knew  the  sudden  kindling  meant 

The  Fair  was  over  for  the  day, 

And  all  the  cattle-folk  away; 

And  gipsy-folk  and  tinkers  now 

Were  lighting  supper-fires  without 

Each  caravan  and  booth  and  tent. 

And  as  I  climbed  the  stiff  hill-brow, 

I  quite  forgot  my  lucky  hare. 

I'd  something  else  to  think  about: 

For  well  I  knew  there's  broken  meat 

For  empty  bellies  after  fair-time; 

And  looked  to  have  a  royal  rare  time 

With  something  rich  and  prime  to  eat: 

And  then  to  lie  and  toast  my  feet 

All  night  beside  the  biggest  fire. 

But  even  as  I  neared  the  first, 


FIRES  319 

A  pleasant  whiff  of  stewing  burst 

From  out  a  smoking  pot  a-bubble : 

And  as  I  stopped  behind  the  folk 

Who  sprawled  around,  and  watched  it  seething 

A  woman  heard  my  eager  breathing, 

And,  turning,  caught  my  hungry  eye : 

And  called  out  to  me:     "  Draw  in  nigher, 

Unless  you  find  it  too  much  trouble ; 

Or  you've  a  nose  for  better  fare, 

And  go  to  supper  with  the  Squire  .  .  . 

You've  got  the  hungry  parson's  air !  " 

And  all  looked  up,  and  took  the  joke, 

As  I  dropped  gladly  to  the  ground 

Among  them,  where  they  all  lay  gazing 

Upon  the  bubbling  and  the  blazing. 

My  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  fire 

At  first ;  and  then  I  glanced  around ; 

And,  in  those  swarthy,  fire-lit  faces  — 

Though  drowsing  in  the  glare  and  heat 

And  snuffing  the  warm  savour  in, 

Dead-certain  of  their  fill  of  meat  — 

I  felt  the  bit  between  the' teeth, 

The  flying  heels,  the  broken  traces, 

And  heard  the  highroad  ring  beneath 

The  trampling  hoofs :  and  knew  them  kin. 

Then  for  the  first  time,  standing  there 

Behind  the  woman  who  had  hailed  me, 

I  saw  a  girl  with  eyes  astare 

That  looked  in  terror  o'er  my  head : 

And,  all  at  once,  my  courage  failed  me  ... 

For  now  again,  and  sore  adread, 

My  hands  were  hot  upon  a  hare, 

That  struggled,  strangling  in  the  snare  .  .  . 

Then  once  more  as  the  girl  stood  clear, 

Before  me  —  quaking  cold  with  fear 

I  saw  the  hare  look  from  her  eyes  .  .  . 

And  when,  at  last,  I  turned  to  see 
What  held  her  scared,  I  saw  a  man  — 
A  fat  man  with  dull  eyes  aleer  — 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  van: 
And  I  was  on  the  point  to  rise 
To  send  him  spinning  'mid  the  wheels, 


320  FIRES 

And  twist  his  neck  between  his  heels, 

And  stop  his  leering  grin  with  mud  .  .  . 

And  would  have  done  it  in  a  tick  .  .  . 

When,  suddenly,  alive  with  fright, 

She  started,  with  red,  parted  lips, 

As  though  she  guessed  we'd  come  to  grips, 

And  turned  her  black  eyes  full  on  me  .  .  . 

And  as  I  looked  into  their  light, 

My  heart  forgot  the  lust  of  fight, 

And  something  shot  me  to  the  quick, 

And  ran  like  wildfire  through  my  blood 

And  tingled  to  my  finger-tips  .  .  . 

And  in  a  dazzling  flash,  I  knew 

I'd  never  been  alive  before  .  .  . 

And  she  was  mine  for  evermore. 

While  all  the  others  slept  asnore 
In  caravan  and  tent  that  night, 
I  lay  alone  beside  the  fire  ; 
And  stared  into  its  blazing  core, 
With  eyes  that  would  not  shut  or  tire, 
Because  the  best  of  all  was  true, 
And  they  looked  still  into  the  light 
Of  her  eyes,  burning  ever  bright. 
Within  the  brightest  coal  for  me  ... 
Once  more,  I  saw  her,  as  she  started, 
And  glanced  at  me  with  red  lips  parted : 
And,  as  she  looked,  the  frightened  hare 
Had  fled  her  eyes ;  and,  merrily, 
She  smiled,  with  fine  teeth  flashing  white, 
As  though  she,  too^  were  happy-hearted  .  . 
Then  she  had  trembled  suddenly, 
And  dropped  her  eyes,  as  that  fat  man 
Stepped  from  the  shadow  of  the  van, 
And  joined  the  circle,  as  the  pot 
Was  lifted  off,  and,  piping-hot, 
The  supper  steamed  in  wooden  bowls. 
Yet,  she  had  scarcely  touched  a  bite: 
And  never  raised  her  eyes  all  night 
To  mine  again :  but  on  the  coals, 
As  I  sat  staring,  she  had  stared  — 
The  black  curls,  shining  round  her  head 
From  under  the  red  kerchief,  tied 
So  nattily  beneath  her  chin  — 


FIRES  321 

And  she  had  stolen  off  to  bed 
Quite  early,  looking  dazed  and  scared. 
Then,  all  agape  and  sleepy-eyed, 
Ere  long  the  others  had  turned  in : 
And  I  was  rid  of  that  fat  man, 
Who  slouched  away  to  his  own  van. 

And  now  before  her  van  I  lay, 

With  sleepless  eyes,  awaiting  day : 

And  as  I  gazed  upon  the  glare, 

I  heard,  behind,  a  gentle  stir: 

And  turning  round,  I  looked  on  her 

Where  she  stood  on  the  little  stair 

Outside  the  van,  with  listening  air  — 

And  in  her  eyes,  the  hunted  hare  .  .  . 

And  then  I  saw  her  slip  away, 

A  bundle  underneath  her  arm, 

Without  a  single  glance  at  me. 

I  lay  a  moment  wondering, 

My  heart  a-thump  like  anything, 

Then,  fearing  she  should  come  to  harm, 

I  rose,  and  followed  speedily 

Where  she  had  vanished  in  the  night. 

And  as  she  heard  my  step  behind, 

She  started,  and  stopt  dead  with  fright: 

Then  blundered  on  as  if  struck  blind : 

And  now  as  I  caught  up  with  her, 

Just  as  she  took  the  moorland  track, 

I  saw  the  hare's  eyes,  big  and  black  .  .  . 

She  made  as  though  she'd  double  back  .  .  . 

But  when  she  looked  into  my  eyes, 

She  stood  quite  still  and  did  not  stir  .  .  . 

And  picking  up  her  fallen  pack, 

I  tucked  it  'neath  my  arm ;  and  she 

Just  took  her  luck  quite  quietly, 

As  she  must  take  what  chance  might  come, 

And  would  not  have  it  otherwise, 

And  walked  into  the  night  with  me, 

Without  a  word  across  the  fells. 

And  all  about  us,  through  the  night, 
The  mists  were  stealing,  cold  and  white, 
Down  every  rushy  syke  or  slack: 
But  soon  the  moon  swung  into  sight; 
And  as  we  went,  my  heart  was  light 


322  FIRES 

And  singing  like  a  burn  in  flood: 

And  in  my  ears  were  tinkling  bells: 

My  body  was  a  rattled  drum : 

And  fifes  were  shrilling  through  my  blood 

That  summer  night,  to  think  that  she 

Was  walking  through  the  world  with  me. 

But  when  the  air  with  dawn  was  chill, 

As  we  were  travelling  down  a  hill, 

She  broke  her  silence  with  low  sobbing: 

And  told  her  tale,  her  bosom  throbbing 

As  though  her  very  heart  were  shaken 

With  fear  she'd  yet  be  overtaken  .  .  . 

She'd  always  lived  in  caravans  — 

Her  father's,  gay  as  any  man's, 

Grass-green,  picked  out  with  red  and  yellow 

And  glittering  brave  with  burnished  brass 

That  sparkled  in  the  sun  like  flame, 

And  window  curtains,  white  as  snow  .  .  . 

But  they  had  died,  ten  years  ago, 

Her  parents  both,  when  fever  came  .  .  . 

And  they  were  buried,  side  by  side, 

Somewhere  beneath  the  wayside  grass  .  .  . 

In  times  of  sickness  they  kept  wide 

Of  towns  and  busybodies,  so 

No  parson's  or  policeman's  tricks 

Should  bother  them  when  in  a  fix  ... 

Her  father  never  could  abide 

A  black  coat  or  a  blue,  poor  man  .  .  . 

And  so  Long  Dick,  a  kindly  fellow, 

When  you  could  keep  him  from  the  can, 

And  Meg,  his  easy-going  wife, 

Had  taken  her  into  their  van ; 

And  kept  her  since  her  parents  died  .  .  . 

And  she  had  lived  a  happy  life, 

Until  Fat  Pete's  young  wife  was  taken  .  . 

But,  ever  since,  he'd  pestered  her  .  .  . 

And  she  dared  scarcely  breathe  or  stir, 

Lest  she  should  see  his  eyes  aleer  .  .  . 

And  many  a  night  she'd  lain  and  shaken, 

And  very  nearly  died  of  fear  — 

Though  safe  enough  within  the  van 

With  Mother  Meg  and  her  good-man  — 

For,  since  Fat  Pete  was  Long  Dick's  friend, 

And  they  were  thick  and  sweet  as  honey, 


FIRES  323 

And  Dick  owed  Pete  a  pot  of  money, 
She  knew  too  well  how  it  must  end  .  .  . 
And  she  would  rather  lie  stone  dead 
Beneath  the  wayside  grass  than  wed 
With  leering  Pete,  and  live  the  life, 
And  die  the  death,  of  his  first  wife  .  .  . 
And  so,  last  night,  clean-daft  with  dread, 
She'd  bundled  up  a  pack  and  fled  .  .  . 

When  all  the  sobbing  tale  was  out, 

She  dried  her  eyes,  and  looked  about, 

As  though  she'd  left  all  fear  behind, 

And  out  of  sight  were  out  of  mind. 

Then,  when  the  dawn  was  burning  red, 

"  I'm  hungry  as  a  hawk!  "  she  said: 

And  from  the  bundle  took  out  bread. 

And  at  the  happy  end  of  night 

We  sat  together  by  a  burn, 

And  ate  a  thick  slice,  turn  by  turn, 

And  laughed  and  kissed  between  each  bite. 

Then,  up  again,  and  on  our  way 
We  went ;  and  tramped  the  livelong  day 
The  moorland  trackways,  steep  and  rough, 
Though  there  was  little  fear  enough 
That  they  would  follow  on  our  flight. 

And  then  again  a  shiny  night 
Among  the  honey-scented  heather, 
We  wandered  in  the  moonblaze  bright, 
Together  through  a  land  of  light, 
A  lad  and  lass  alone  with  life. 
And  merrily  we  laughed  together, 
When,  starting  up  from  sleep,  we  heard 
The  cock-grouse  talking  to  his  wife  .  .  . 
And  "  Old  Fat  Pete  "  she  called  the  bird. 

Six  months  and  more  have  cantered  by: 
And,  Winter  past,  we're  out  again  — 
We've  left  the  fat  and  weatherwise 
To  keep  their  coops  and  reeking  sties, 
And  eat  their  fill  of  oven-pies, 
While  we  win  free  and  out  again 
To  take  potluck  beneath  the  sky 


324  FIRES 

With  sun  and  moon  and  wind  and  rain. 

Six  happy  months  .  .  .  and  yet,  at  night, 

I've  often  wakened  in  affright, 

And  looked  upon  her  lying  there, 

Beside  me  sleeping  quietly, 

Adread  that  when  she  waked,  I'd  see 

The  hunted  hare  within  her  eyes. 

And,  only  last  night,  as  I  slept 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  a  stack  .  .  . 
My  hands  were  hot  upon  a  hare, 
Half-strangled,  struggling  in  the  snare, 
When,  suddenly,  her  eyes  shot  back, 
Big,  fearful,  staggering  and  black ; 
And  ere  I  knew,  my  grip  was  slack, 
And  I  was  clutching  empty  air  ... 
Bolt-upright  from  my  sleep  I  leapt  .  .  . 
Her  place  was  empty  in  the  straw  .  .  . 
And  then,  with  quaking  heart,  I  saw 
That  she  was  standing  in  the  night, 
A  leveret  cuddled  to  her  breast  .  .  . 

I  spoke  no  word :  but,  as  the  light 

Through  banks  of  Eastern  cloud  was  breaking 

She  turned,  and  saw  that  I  was  waking : 

And  told  me  how  she  could  not  rest; 

And,  rising  in  the  night,  she'd  found 

This  baby-hare  crouched  on  the  ground 

And  she  had  nursed  it  quite  a  while : 

But,  now,  she'd  better  let  it  go  ... 

Its  mother  would  be  fretting  so  ... 

A  mother's  heart  .  .  . 

I  saw  her  smile, 

And  look  at  me  with  tender  eyes : 
And  as  I  looked  into  their  light, 
My  foolish,  fearful  heart  grew  wise  .  .  . 
And  now,  I  knew  that  never  there 
I'd  see  again  the  startled  hare, 
Or  need  to  dread  the  dreams  of  night. 

1910-1911. 


THOROUGHFARES 

(1908-1914) 


TO 

EDWARD  MARSH 


THOROUGHFARES 


SOLWAY  FORD 

He  greets  you  with  a  smile  from  friendly  eyes; 
But  never  speaks,  nor  rises  from  his  bed : 
Beneath  the  green  night  of  the  sea  he  lies, 
The  whole  world's  waters  weighing  on  his  head. 

The  empty  wain  made  slowly  over  the  sand ; 
And  he,  with  hands  in  pockets  by  the  side 
Was  trudging,  deep  in  dream,  the  while  he  scanned 
With  blue,  unseeing  eyes  the  far-off  tide: 
When,  stumbling  in  a  hole,  with  startled  neigh, 
His  young  horse  reared ;  and,  snatching  at  the  rein, 
He  slipped :  the  wheels  crushed  on  him  as  he  lay ; 
Then,  tilting  over  him,  the  lumbering  wain 
Turned  turtle  as  the  plunging  beast  broke  free, 
And  made  for  home:  and  pinioned  and  half-dead 
He  lay,  and  listened  to  the  far-off  sea; 
And  seemed  to  hear  it  surging  overhead 
Already:  though  'twas  full  an  hour  or  more 
Until  high-tide,  when  Solway's  shining  flood 
Should  sweep  the  shallow  firth  from  shore  to  shore. 
He  felt  a  salty  tingle  in  his  blood  ; 
And  seemed  to  stifle,  drowning.     Then  again, 
He  knew  that  he  must  lie  a  lingering  while 
Before  the  sea  might  close  above  his  pain, 
Although  the  advancing  waves  had  scarce  a  mile 
To  travel,  creeping  nearer,  inch  by  inch, 
With  little  runs  and  sallies  over  the  sand. 
Cooped  in  the  dark,  he  felt  his  body  flinch 
From  each  cold  wave  as  it  drew  nearer  hand. 
He  saw  the  froth  of  each  oncoming  crest; 
And  felt  the  tugging  of  the  ebb  and  flow, 
And  waves  already  breaking  over  his  breast ; 
Though  still  far-off  they  murmured,  faint  and  low: 
327 


328  THOROUGHFARES 

Yet,  creeping  nearer,  inch  by  inch ;  and  now 
He  felt  the  cold  drench  of  the  drowning  wave, 
And  the  salt  cold  of  death  on  lips  and  brow ; 
And  sank,  and  sank  .  .  .  while  still,  as  in  a  grave, 
In  the  close  dark  beneath  the  crushing  cart, 
He  lay,  and  listened  to  the  far-off  sea. 
Wave  after  wave  was  knocking  at  his  heart, 
And  swishing,  swishing,  swishing  ceaselessly 
About  the  wain  —  cool  waves  that  never  reached 
His  cracking  lips,  to  slake  his  hell-hot  thirst  .  .  . 
Shrill  in  his  ear  a  startled  barn-owl  screeched  .  .  . 
He  smelt  the  smell  of  oil-cake  .  .  .  when  there  burst, 
Through  the  big  barn's  wide-open  door,  the  sea  — 
The  whole  sea  sweeping  on  him  with  a  roar  .  .  . 
He  clutched  a  falling  rafter,  dizzily  .  .  . 
Then  sank  through  drowning  deeps,  to  rise  no  more. 

Down,  ever  down,  a  hundred  years  he  sank 

Through  cold  green  death,  ten  thousand  fathom  deep. 

His  fiery  lips  deep  draughts  of  cold  sea  drank 

That  filled  his  body  with  strange  icy  sleep, 

Until  he  felt  no  longer  that  numb  ache, 

The  dead-weight  lifted  from  his  legs  at  last: 

And  yet,  he  gazed  with  wondering  eyes  awake 

Up  the  green  glassy  gloom  through  which  he  passed : 

And  saw,  far  overhead,  the  keels  of  ships 

Grow  small  and  smaller,  dwindling  out  of  sight  ; 

And  watched  the  bubbles  rising  from  his  lips ; 

And  silver  salmon  swimming  in  green  night; 

And  queer  big,  golden  bream  with  scarlet  fins 

And  emerald  eyes  and  fiery-flashing  tails; 

Enormous  eels  with  purple-spotted  skins; 

And  mammoth  unknown  fish  with  sapphire  scales 

That  bore  down  on  him  with  red  jaws  agape, 

Like  yawning  furnaces  of  blinding  heat; 

And  when  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  escape 

From  those  hell-mouths  were  hopeless,  his  bare  feet 

Touched  bottom :  and  he  lay  down  in  his  place 

Among  the  dreamless  legion  of  the  drowned, 

The  calm  of  deeps  unsounded  on  his  face, 

And  calm  within  his  heart;  while  all  around 

Upon  the  midmost  ocean's  crystal  floor 

The  naked  bodies  of  dead  seamen  lay, 


THOROUGHFARES  329 

Dropped,  sheer  and  clean,  from  hubbub,  brawl  and  roar, 
To  peace,  too  deep  for  any  tide  to  sway. 

The  little  waves  were  lapping  round  the  cart 

Already,  when  they  rescued  him  from  death. 

Life  cannot  touch  the  quiet  of  his  heart 

To  joy  or  sorrow,  as,  with  easy  breath, 

And  smiling  lips  upon  his  back  he  lies, 

And  never  speaks,  nor  rises  from  his  bed ; 

Gazing  through  those  green  glooms  with  happy  eyes, 

While  gold  and  sapphire  fish  swim  overhead. 


A  CATCH  FOR  SINGING 

Said  the  Old  Young  Man  to  the  Young  Old  Man: 
"  Alack,  and  well  a-day !  " 

Said  the  Young  Old  Man  to  the  Old  Young  Man : 
"  The  cherry-tree's  in  flourish !  " 

Said  the  Old  Young  Man  to  the  Young  Old  Man : 
"  The  world  is  growing  grey." 
Said  the  Young  Old  Man  to  the  Old  Young  Man : 
"  The  cherry-tree's  in  flourish!  " 

Said  the  Old  Young  Man  to  the  Young  Old  Man : 
"  Both  flower  and  fruit  decay." 
Said  the  Young  Old  Man  to  the  Old  Young  Man: 
"  The  cherry-tree's  in  flourish !  " 

Said  the  Old  Young  Man  to  the  Young  Old  Man : 

"Alack,  and  well-a-day! 

The  world  is  growing  grey: 

And  flower  and  fruit  decay. 

Beware  Old  Man,  beware  Old  Man! 

For  the  end  of  life  is  nearing; 

And  the  grave  yawns  by  the  way  .  .  ." 

Said  the  Young  Old  Man  to  the  Old  Young  Man : 
"  I'm  a  trifle  hard  of  hearing; 
And  can't  catch  a  word  you  say  .  .  . 
But  the  cherry-tree's  in  flourish !  " 


330 


GERANIUMS 

Stuck  in  a  bottle  on  the  window-sill, 

In  the  cold  gaslight  burning  gaily  red 

Against  the  luminous  blue  of  London  night, 

These  flowers  are  mine:  while  somewhere  out  of  sight 

In  some  black-throated  alley's  stench  and  heat, 

Oblivious  of  the  racket  of  the  street, 

A  poor  old  weary  woman  lies  in  bed. 

Broken  with  lust  and  drink,  blear-eyed  and  ill, 
Her  battered  bonnet  nodding  on  her  head, 
From  a  dark  door  she  clutched  my  sleeve  and  said : 
"  I've  sold  no  bunch  to-day,  nor  touched  a  bite  .  .  . 
Son,  buy  six-penn'orth ;  and  'twill  mean  a  bed." 

So,  blazing  gaily  red 
Against  the  luminous  deeps 
Of  starless  London  night, 
They  burn  for  my  delight: 
While  somewhere,  snug  in  bed, 
A  worn  old  woman  sleeps. 

And  yet  to-morrow  will  these  blooms  be  dead 

With  all  their  lively  beauty;  and  to-morrow 

May  end  the  light  lusts  and  the  heavy  sorrow 

Of  that  old  body  with  the  nodding  head. 

The  last  oath  muttered,  the  last  pint  drained  deep, 

She'll  sink,  as  Cleopatra  sank,  to  sleep ; 

Nor  need  to  barter  blossoms  for  a  bed. 


331 


THE  WHISPERERS 

As  beneath  the  moon  I  walked, 
Dog-at-heel  my  shadow  stalked, 
Keeping  ghostly  company: 
And  as  we  went  gallantly 
Down  the  fell-road,  dusty-white, 
Round  us  in  the  windy  night 
Bracken,  rushes,  bent  and  heather 
Whispered  ceaselessly  together: 
"  Would  he  ever  journey  more, 
Ever  stride  so  carelessly, 
If  he  knew  what  lies  before, 
And  could  see  what  we  can  see  ?  " 

As  I  listened,  cold  with  dread, 
Every  hair  upon  my  head 
Strained  to  hear  them  talk  of  me, 
Whispering,  whispering  ceaselessly: 
"  Folly's  fool  the  man  must  be, 
Surely,  since,  though  where  he  goes 
He  knows  not,  his  shadow  knows: 
And  his  secret  shadow  never 
Utters  warning  words,  or  ever 
Seeks  to  save  him  from  his  fate, 
Reckless,  blindfold,  and  unknown, 
Till  death  tells  him  all,  too  late, 
And  his  shadow  walks  alone." 


332 


MABEL 

When  Nigger  Dick  and  Hell-for-Women  slouched 
Into  the  taproom  of  the  "  Duck  and  De'il," 
The  three  Dalmatian  pups  slunk  in  at  heel 
And  down  among  the  slushy  saw-dust  crouched ; 
But  Mabel  would  not  leave  the  windy  street 
For  any  gaudy  tavern's  reek  and  heat  — 
Not  she!  for  Mabel  was  no  spotted  dog 
To  crawl  among  the  steaming  muddy  feet 
Beneath  a  bench,  and  slumber  like  a  log. 

And  so  she  set  her  hoofs,  and  stayed  outside, 
Though  Hell-for-Women  pushed  the  swing-door  wide, 
And  "  Mabel,  darling!  Mabel,  darling!  "  cried, 
And  Nigger  Dick  thrust  out  his  head  and  cursed 
Until  his  tongue  burned  with  so  hot  a  thirst, 
He  turned  and  swore  that  he'd  not  split  his  throat 
To  save  the  soul  of  any  giddy  goat. 

And  then  they  left  her,  stubborn,  wild  and  white, 
Snuffing  the  wet  air  of  the  windy  night: 
And  as  she  stood  beneath  a  cold  blue  star 
That  pierced  the  narrow  strip  of  midnight  sky 
Between  the  sleeping  houses  black  and  high, 
The  glare  and  glitter  of  the  reeking  bar, 
And  all  the  filth  and  squalor  of  the  street 
Were  blotted  out  .  .  . 

And  she  was  lost  between 
The  beetling  crags  of  some  deep,  dark  ravine 
In  Andalusian  solitudes  of  stone, 
A  trembling,  young,  bewildered  nanny-goat 
Within  the  cold  blue  heart  of  night  alone  .  . '. 
Until  her  ears  pricked,  tingling  to  a  bleat, 
As,  far  above  her,  on  a  naked  scar, 
The  dews  of  morning  dripping  from  his  beard, 
Rejoicing  in  his  strength  the  herd-king  reared, 
Shaking  the  darkness  from  his  shaggy  coat. 

333 


THE  VIXEN 

The  vixen  made  for  Deadman's  Flow, 
Where  not  a  mare  but  mine  could  go ; 
And  three  hounds  only  splashed  across 
The  quaking  hags  of  mile-wide  moss ; 
Only  three  of  the  deadbeat  pack 
Scrambled  out  by  Lone  Maid's  Slack, 
Bolter,  Tough,  and  Ne'er-Die-Nell: 
But  as  they  broke  across  the  fell 
The  tongue  they  gave  was  good  to  hear, 
Lively  music,  clean  and  clear, 
Such  as  only  light-coats  make, 
Hot-trod  through  the  girth-deep  brake. 

The  vixen,  draggled  and  nigh-spent, 
Twisted  through  the  rimy  bent 
Towards  the  Christhope  Crags.     I  thought 
Every  earth  stopt  —  winded  —  caught  .  .  . 
She's  a  mask  and  brush!     When  white 
A  squall  of  snow  swept  all  from  sight ; 
And  hoodman-blind,  Lightfoot  and  I 
Battled  with  the  roaring  sky. 

When  southerly  the  snow  had  swept, 

Light  broke,  as  the  vixen  crept 

Slinking  up  the  stony  brae. 

On  a  jutting  scar  she  lay, 

Panting,  lathered,  while  she  eyed 

The  hounds  that  took  the  stiff  brae-side 

With  yelping  music,  mad  to  kill. 

Then  vixen,  hounds  and  craggy  hill 
Were  smothered  in  a  blinding  swirl: 
And  when  it  passed,  there  stood  a  girl 
Where  the  vixen  late  had  lain, 
Smiling  down,  as  I  drew  rein, 
Baffled;  and  the  hounds,  deadbeat, 
Fawning  at  the  young  girl's  feet, 
334 


THOROUGHFARES  335 

Whimpered,  cowed,  where  her  red  hair, 
Streaming  to  her  ankles  bare, 
Turned  as  white  among  the  heather 
As  the  vixen's  brush's  feather. 

Flinching  on  my  flinching  mare, 
I  watched  her,  gaping  and  astare, 
As  she  smiled  with  red  lips  wide, 
White  fangs  curving  either  side 
Of  her  lolling  tongue  .  .  .  My  thrapple 
Felt  fear's  fang:  I  strove,  agrapple, 
Reeling  .  .  .  and  again  blind  snow 
Closed  like  night. 

No  man  may  know 

How  Lightfoot  won  through  Deadman's  Flow 
And  naught  I  knew  till,  in  the  glow 
Of  home's  wide  door,  my  wife's  kind  face 
Smiled  welcome.     And  for  me  the  chase, 
The  last  chase,  ended.     Though  the  pack 
Through  the  blizzard  struggled  back, 
Gone  were  Bolter,  Tough  and  Nell, 
Where,  the  vixen's  self  can  tell! 
Long  we  sought  them,  high  and  low, 
By  Christhope  Crag  and  Deadman's  Flow, 
By  slack  and  syke  and  hag:  and  found 
Never  bone  nor  hair  of  hound. 


THE  LODGING  HOUSE 

When  up  the  fretful,  creaking  stair, 

From  floor  to  floor 

I  creep 

On  tiptoe,  lest  I  wake  from  their  first  beauty-sleep 

The  unknown  lodgers  lying,  layer  on  layer, 

In  the  packed  house  from  roof  to  basement 

Behind  each  landing's  unseen  door; 

The  well-known  steps  are  strangely  steep, 

And  the  old  stairway  seems  to  soar, 

For  my  amazement 

Hung  in  air, 

Flight  on  flight 

Through  pitchy  night, 

Evermore  and  evermore. 

And  when  at  last  I  stand  outside 

My  garret-door  I  hardly  dare 

To  open  it, 

Lest,  when  I  fling  it  wide, 

With  candle  lit 

And  reading  in  my  only  chair, 

I  find  myself  already  there  .  .  . 

And  so  must  crawl  back  down  the  sheer  black  pit 

Of  hell's  own  stair, 

Past  lodgers  sleeping  layer  on  layer, 

To  seek  a  home  I  know  not  where. 


336 


THE  ICE 

Her  day  out  from  the  workhouse-ward,  she  stands, 
A  grey-haired  woman,  decent  and  precise, 
With  prim  black  bonnet  and  neat  paisley  shawl, 
Among  the  other  children  by  the  stall ; 
And  with  grave  relish  eats  a  penny  ice. 

To  wizened  toothless  gums,  with  quaking  hands 
She  holds  it,  shuddering  with  delicious  cold ; 
Nor  heeds  the  jeering  laughter  of  young  men  — 
The  happiest,  in  her  innocence,  of  all: 
For,  while  their  insolent  youth  must  soon  grow  old, 
She,  who's  been  old,  is  now  a  child  again. 


337 


WOOLGATHERING 

Youth  that  goes  woolgathering, 

Mooning  and  stargazing, 

Always  finding  everything 

Full  of  fresh  amazing, 

Best  will  meet  the  moment's  need 

When  the  dream  brings  forth  the  deed. 

He  who  keeps  through  all  his  days 
Open  eyes  of  wonder 
Is  the  lord  of  skiey  ways, 
And  the  earth  thereunder: 
For  the  heart  to  do  and  sing 
Comes  of  youth's  woolgathering. 


338 


THE  TRAM 

Humming  and  creaking,  the  car  down  the  street 
Lumbered  and  lurched  through  thunderous  gloam 
Bearing  us,  spent  and  dumb  with  the  heat, 
From  office  and  counter  and  factory  home: 

Sallow-faced  clerks,  genteel  in  black; 
Girls  from  the  laundries,  draggled  and  dank; 
Ruddy-faced  labourers  slouching  slack ; 
A  broken  actor,  grizzled  and  lank ; 

A  mother  with  querulous  babe  on  her  lap ; 
A  schoolboy  whistling  under  his  breath  ; 
An  old  man  crouched  in  a  dreamless  nap ; 
A  widow  with  eyes  on  the  eyes  of  death ; 

A  priest ;  a  sailor  with  deepsea  gaze ; 

A  soldier  in  scarlet  with  waxed  moustache; 

A  drunken  trollop  in  velvet  and  lace; 

All  silent  in  that  tense  dusk  .  .  .  when  a  flash 

Of  lightning  shivered  the  sultry  gloom : 
With  shattering  brattle  the  whole  sky  fell 
About  us,  and  rapt  to  a  dazzling  doom 
We  glided  on  in  a  timeless  spell, 

Unscathed  through  deluge  and  flying  fire 
In  a  magical  chariot  of  streaming  glass, 
Cut  off  from  our  kind  and  the  world's  desire, 
Made  one  by  the  awe  that  had  come  to  pass. 


339 


ON  THE  EMBANKMENT 

Down  on  the  sunlit  ebb,  with  the  wind  in  her  sails,  and 

free 
Of  cable  and  anchor,  she  swept  rejoicing  to  seek  the  sea. 

And  my  eyes  and  my  heart  swept  out  with  her, 
When  at  my  elbow  I  felt  a  stir ; 
And  glancing  down,  I  saw  a  lad  — 
A  shambling  lad  with  shifty  air, 
Weak-chested,  stunted  and  ill-clad, 
Who  watched  her  with  unseeing  stare. 

Dull,  watery  grey  eyes  he  had 

Blinking  beneath  the  slouching  cap 

That  hid  the  low-browed,  close-cropped  head : 

And  as  I  turned  to  him  he  said 

With  hopeless  hangdog  air: 

"  Just  out  of  gaol  three  days  ago; 

And  I'll  be  back  before  I  know: 

For  nothing  else  is  left  a  chap 

When  once  he's  been  inside  .  .  .  and  so  .  .  ." 

Then  dumb  he  stood  with  sightless  stare 

Set  on  the  sunlit,  windy  sail  of  the  far-off  boat  that  free 

Of  cable  and  anchor  still  swept  on  rejoicing  to  seek  the 


My  heart  is  a  sunlit,  windy  sail: 
My  heart  is  a  hopeless  lad  in  gaol. 


340 


THE  DANCERS 

'Neath  a  thorn  as  white  as  snow, 
High  above  the  peacock  sea, 
Hither,  thither,  to  and  fro, 
Merrily  the  grey  rats  go: 
To  the  song  of  ebb  and  flow 
Moving  as  to  melody. 

Over  gnarled  roots,  high  and  low, 
Twisting,  frisking  fearlessly, 
Six  young  hearts  that  needs  must  know, 
When  the  ragged  thorn's  in  blow, 
Spring,  and  Spring's  desire,  and  so 
Dance,  above  the  dancing  sea. 


341 


THE  WIND 

To  the  lean,  clean  land,  to  the  last  cold  height, 
You  shall  come  with  a  whickering  breath, 
From  the  depths  of  despair  or  the  depths  of  delight, 
Stript  stark  to  the  wind  of  death. 

And  whether  you're  sinless,  or  whether  you've  sinned, 
It's  useless  to  whimper  and  whine; 
For  the  lean,  clean  blade  of  the  cut-throat  wind 
Will  slit  your  weasand,  and  mine. 


342 


THE  VINDICTIVE  STAIRCASE 

OR 

THE  REWARD  OF  INDUSTRY 

In  a  doomed  and  empty  house  in  Houndsditch 
All  night  long  I  lie  awake  and  listen, 
While  all  night  the  ghost  of  Mrs.  Murphy 
Tiptoes  up  and  down  the  wheezy  staircase, 
Sweeling  ghostly  grease  of  quaking  candles. 

Mrs.  Murphy,  timidest  of  spectres, 

You  who  were  the  cheeriest  of  charers, 

With  the  heart  of  innocence  and  only 

Torn  between  a  zest  for  priests  and  porter, 

Mrs.  Murphy  of  the  ample  bosom, — 

Suckler  of  a  score  or  so  of  children 

("  Children?     Bless  you!     Why,  I've  buried  six,  Sir.") 

Who  in  forty  years  wore  out  three  husbands 

And  one  everlasting,  shameless  bonnet 

Which  I've  little  doubt  was  coffined  with  you  — 

Mrs.  Murphy,  wherefor  do  you  wander, 

Sweeling  ghostly  grease  of  quaking  candles, 

Up  and  down  the  stairs  you  scrubbed  so  sorely, 

Scrubbed  till  they  were  naked,  dank,  and  aching? 

Now  that  you  are  dead,  is  this  their  vengeance? 
Recollecting  all  you  made  them  suffer 
With  your  bristled  brush  and  soapy  water 
When  you  scrubbed  them  naked,  dank  and  aching, 
Have  they  power  to  hold  your  ghostly  footsteps 
Chained  as  to  an  everlasting  treadmill? 

Mrs.  Murphy,  think  you  'twould  appease  them 
If  I  rose  now  in  my  shivering  nightshirt, 
Rose  and  told  them  how  you,  too,  had  suffered  — 
You,  their  seeming  tyrant,  but  their  bondslave  — 
Toiling  uncomplaining  in  their  service, 
Till  your  knuckles  and  your  knees  were  knotted 
343 


344  THOROUGHFARES 

Into  writhing  fires  of  red  rheumatics, 

And  how,  in  the  end,  'twas  they  who  killed  you? 

Even  should  their  knots  still  harden  to  you, 
Bow  your  one  and  all-enduring  bonnet 
Till  your  ear  is  level  with  my  keyhole, 
While  I  whisper  ghostly  consolation : 
Know  this  house  is  marked  out  for  the  spoiler, 
Doomed  to  fall  to  Hobnails  with  his  pickaxe ; 
And  its  crazy  staircase  chopped  to  firewood, 
Splintered,  bundled,  burned  to  smoke  and  ashes, 
Soon  shall  perish,  scattered  to  the  fourwinds. 
Then,  God  rest  your  spirit,  Mrs.  Murphy! 

Yet,  who  knows!     A  staircase  .  .  .  Mrs.  Murphy, 

God  forbid  that  you  be  doomed  to  tiptoe 

Through  eternity,  a  timid  spectre, 

Sweeling  ghostly  grease  of  quaking  candles, 

Up  and  down  the  spectre  of  a  staircase, 

While  all  night  I  lie  awake  and  listen 

In  a  damned  and  ghostly  house  in  Houndsditch ! 


RAGAMUFFINS 

Few  folk  like  the  wind's  way; 

Fewer  folk  like  mine, — 

Folk  who  rise  at  nine, 

Who  live  to  drudge  and  dine, 

Who  never  see  the  starry  light, 

And  sleep  in  the  same  bed  each  night 

Under  the  same  roof; 

When  the  rascal  wind  and  I 

Happen  to  be  gadding  by, 

Gentlefolk,  so  fat  and  fine 

Beg  to  hold  aloof, 

Leaving  us  to  starlit  beds,  and  husks  amid  the  swine. 

Few  folk  like  the  wind's  song, 
And  fewer  folk  like  mine, — 
Folk  who  trudge  the  trodden  way, 
Who  keep  the  track  and  never  stray, 
Who  think  the  sun's  for  making  hay, — 
Folk  who  cannot  dance  or  play, 
Faultless  folk  and  fine. 
Yet,  the  wind  and  I  are  gay, 
In  our  ragamuffin  way, 
Singing,  storm  or  shine. 


345 


THE  ALARUM 

Stark  to  the  skin,  I  crawled  a  knife-edged  blade 

Of  melting  ice  above  the  pit  of  Hell, 

Flame-licked  and  scorched ;  yet  strangely  undismayed, 

Till  on  my  ears  a  dizzy  clamour  fell, 

And  dropt  me  sheer  .  .  .  and,  wakening  in  my  bed, 

I  saw  the  sky,  beyond  the  chimneys  red 

And  heard  the  crazy  clanging  of  a  bell. 


346 


IN  A  RESTAURANT 

He  wears  a  red  rose  in  his  buttonhole, 

A  city-clerk  on  Sunday  dining  out: 

And  as  the  music  surges  over  the  din 

The  heady  quavering  of  the  violin 

Sings  through  his  blood,  and  puts  old  cares  to  rout, 

And  tingles,  quickening,  through  his  shrunken  soul, 

Till  he  forgets  his  ledgers,  and  the  prim 

Black,  crabbed  figures,  and  the  qualmy  smell 

Of  ink  and  musty  leather  and  leadglaze, 

As,  in  eternities  of  Summer  days, 

He  dives  through  shivering  waves,  or  rides  the  swell 

On  rose-red  seas  of  melody  aswim. 


347 


THE  GREETING 

"  What  fettle,  mate?  "  to  me  he  said 

As  he  went  by 

With  lifted  head 

And  laughing  eye, 

Where,  black  against  the  dawning  red, 

The  pit-heaps  cut  the  sky: 

"What  fettle,  mate?  " 

"What  fettle,  mate?"  to  him  I  said, 

As  he  went  by 

With  shrouded  head 

And  darkened  eye, 

Borne  homeward  by  his  marrows,  dead 

Beneath  the  noonday  sky: 

"What  fettle,  mate?" 


348 


WHEELS 

To  safety  of  the  curb  he  thrust  the  crone: 
When  a  shaft  took  him  in  the  back,  and  prone 
He  tumbled  heavily,  but  all  unheard 
Amid  the  scurry  of  wheels  that  crashed  and  whirred 
About  his  senseless  head  —  his  helmet  crushed 
Like  crumpled  paper  by  a  car  that  rushed 
Upon  him  unaware.     And  as  he  lay 
He  heard  again  the  wheels  he'd  heard  all  day 
About  him  on  point-duty  .  .  .  only  now 
Each  red-hot  wheel  ran  searing  over  his  brow  — 
A  sizzling  star  with  hub  and  spokes  and  tyre 
One  monstrous  Catherine-wheel  of  sparkling  fire 
Whirring  down  windy  tunnels  of  the  night  .  .  . 
That  Catherine-wheel,  somehow  it  will  not  light  — 
Fixed  to  the  broken  paling;  and  the  pin 
Pricks  the  boy's  finger  as  he  jabs  it  in: 
He  sucks  the  salty  blood  —  the  spiteful  thing 
Fires,  whizzing,  sputtering  sparks:  he  feels  them  sting 
His  wincing  cheek;  and,  on  the  damp  night-air, 
The  stench  of  burnt  saltpetre  and  singed  hair  ... 
While  still  he  lies  and  listens  without  fear 
To  the  loud  traffic  rumbling  in  his  ear  — 
Wheels  rumbling  in  his  ear,  and  through  his  brain 
For  evermore,  a  never-ending  train 
Of  scarlet  postal-vans  that  whirl  one  red 
Perpetual  hot  procession  through  his  head  — 
His  head  that's  just  a  clanking,  clattering  mill 
Of  grinding  wheels  .  .  .  and  down  an  endless  hill 
After  his  hoop  he  runs,  a  little  lad, 
Barefooted  'neath  the  stars,  in  nightshirt  clad  — 
And  stumbles  into  bed,  the  stars  all  gone 
Though  in  his  head  the  hoop  keeps  running  on 
And  on  and  on :  his  head  grown  big  and  wide 
Holds  all  the  windy  night  and  stars  inside  .  .  . 
And  still  within  a  hair's  breadth  of  his  ear 
The  crunch  and  gride  of  wheels  rings  sharp  and  clear  • 
Huge  lumbering  wagons,  crusted  axle-deep 
349 


350  THOROUGHFARES 

With  country  marl,  their  drivers  half-asleep 

Against  green  toppling  mounds  of  cabbages 

Still  crisp  with  dewy  airs,  or  stacks  of  cheese 

Smelling  of  Arcady,  till  all  the  sky 

In  clouds  of  cheese  and  cabbages  rolls  by  — 

Great  golden  cheeses  wheeling  through  the  night, 

And  giant  cabbages  of  emerald  light 

That  tumble  after,  scattering  crystal  drops  .  .  . 

While  in  his  ear  the  grinding  never  stops  — 

Wheels  grinding  asphalt  .  .  .  then  a  high-piled  wain 

Of  mignonette  in  boxes  .  .  .  and  again, 

A  baby  at  his  father's  cottage-door 

He  toddles,  treading  on  his  pinafore, 

And  tumbles  headlong  in  a  bed  of  bloom, 

Half-smothered  in  the  deep,  sweet  honeyed  gloom 

Of  crushed,  wet  blossom,  and  the  hum  of  bees  — 

Big  bumble-bees  that  buzz  through  flowery  trees  — 

Grows  furious  .  .  .  changing  to  a  roar  of  wheels 

And  honk  of  hooting  horns :  and  now  he  feels 

That  all  the  cars  in  London  filled  with  light 

Are  bearing  down  upon  him  through  the  night, 

As  out  of  hall  and  theatre  there  pour 

White-shouldered  women,  ever  more  and  more, 

Bright-eyed,  with  flashing  teeth,  borne  in  a  throng 

Of  purring,  glittering  cars,  ten  thousand  strong: 

Each  drowsy  dame,  and  eager  chattering  lass 

Laughing  unheard  within  her  box  of  glass  .  .  . 

And  then  great  darkness,  and  a  clanging  bell  — 

Clanging  beneath  the  hollow  dome  of  hell 

Aglow  like  burnished  copper;  and  a  roar 

Of  wheels  and  wheels  and  wheels  for  evermore, 

As  engine  after  engine  crashes  by 

With  clank  and  rattle  under  that  red  sky 

Dropping  a  trail  of  burning  coals  behind, 

That  scorch  his  eyeballs  till  he  lies  half-blind, 

Smouldering  to  cinder  in  a  vasty  night 

Of  wheeling  worlds  and  stars  in  whirring  flight, 

And  suns  that  blaze  in  thunderous  fury  on 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  yet  are  gone 

Ere  he  can  gasp  to  see  them  .  .  .  head  to  heels 

Slung  round  a  monstrous  red-hot  hub,  that  wheels 

Across  infinity,  with  spokes  of  fire 

That  dwindle  slowly  till  the  shrinking  tyre 

Is  clamped  like  aching  ice  about  his  head  .  .  . 


THOROUGHFARES  351 

He  smells  clean  acid  smells:  and  safe  in  bed 

He  wakens  in  a  lime-washed  ward,  to  hear 

Somebody  moaning  almost  in  his  ear, 

And  knows  that  it's  himself  that  moans:  and  then, 

Battling  his  way  back  to  the  world  of  men, 

He  sees  with  leaden  eyelids  opening  wide, 

His  young  wife  gravely  knitting  by  his  side. 


PROMETHEUS 

All  day  beneath  the  bleak,  indifferent  skies, 
Broken  and  blind,  a  shivering  bag  of  bones, 
He  trudges  over  icy  paving  stones, 
And   "Matches!     Matches!     Matches!     Matches! 
cries. 

And  now  beneath  the  dismal,  dripping  night 
And  shadowed  by  a  deeper  night,  he  stands: 
And  yet  he  holds  within  his  palsied  hands 
Quick  fire  enough  to  set  his  world  alight. 


352 


NIGHT 

Suddenly  kindling  the  skylight's  pitchy  square, 

The  eyes  of  a  cat,  sinister,  glassy  and  green, 

Caught  by  a  trick  of  the  light  in  a  senseless  stare  .  .  . 

And  the  powers  of  the  older  night,  abhorrent,  obscene, 

Each  from  his  den  of  darkness  and  loathly  lair, 

Slink  to  my  bedside,  and  gibber  and  mow,  and  fill 

My  heart  with  the  Fear  of  the  Fen  and  the  Dread  of  the  Hill 

And  the  Terror  that  stalks  by  night  through  the  Wood  of  Doom. 

And  things  that  are  headless  and  nameless  throng  the  room: 

The  cold  webbed  fingers  of  witches  are  in  my  hair: 

The  clammy  lips  of  the  warlock  are  clenched  to  mine: 

The  Eel  of  the  bottomless  pit  of  Deadman's  Bog 

Slithers  an  icy  spiral  about  my  spine: 

A  corpse-clutch  freezes  my  midriff,  the  foul  reek  of  Fog  .  .  . 

When  my  hand  is  licked  by  the  warm  wet  tongue  of  my  dog; 
The  eyes  blink  out ;  and  Horror  slinks  back  to  her  den ; 
And  I  breathe  again. 


353 


ON  HAMPSTEAD  HEATH 

Against  the  green  flame  of  the  hawthorn-tree, 
His  scarlet  tunic  burns; 

And  livelier  than  the  green  sap's  mantling  glee 
The  Spring  fire  tingles  through  him  headily 
As  quivering  he  turns 

And  stammers  out  the  old  amazing  tale 

Of  youth  and  April  weather; 

While  she,  with  half-breathed  jests  that,  sobbing,  fail, 

Sits,  tight-lipped,  quaking,  eager-eyed  and  pale; 

Beneath  her  purple  feather. 


.354 


A  VISION  IN  A  TEA-SHOP 

His  hair  lit  up  the  tea-shop  like  a  fire, 
The  naked  flame  of  youth  made  manifest  — 
Young  hunger's  unappeasable  desire 
Devouring  cakes  and  cream  with  eager  zest : 

While  cheek  by  jowl,  an  old  man,  bald  and  blind 
And  peaked  and  withered  as  a  waning  moon, 
With  toothless,  mumbling  gums,  and  wandering  mind 
Supped  barley-water  from  a  tremulous  spoon. 

I  turned  a  moment:  and  the  man  was  gone: 
And  as  I  looked  upon  the  red-haired  boy, 
About  him  in  a  blinding  glory  shone 
The  sons  of  morning  singing  together  for  joy. 


355 


LINES 

Addressed  to  the  Spectre  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman,  recently  de- 
mised, Whom  the  Author  had  once  observed  performing  a 
Benevolent  Office  in  the  Vicinity  of  Holborn,  W.  C. 

I  saw  you,  seated  on  a  horse's  head, 
While  the  blaspheming  carter  cut  the  traces, 
Obese,  white-waistcoated,  and  newly  fed, 
Through  bland,  indifferent  monocle  surveying 
The  gaping  circle  of  indifferent  faces. 

And  now,  the  news  has  come  that  you  are  dead, 
I  see  you,  while  they  cut  the  tangled  traces, 
On  your  own  hearse's  fallen  horse's  head, 
Through  bland,  indifferent  monocle  surveying 
The  unseeing  circle  of  funereal  faces. 


356 


THE  DREADNOUGHT 

Breasting  the  tide  of  the  traffic,  the  "  Dreadnought  "  comes, 
Be-ribboned  and  gay,  the  first  of  the  holiday  brakes, 
Brimful  of  broken  old  women,  a  parish's  mothers, 
Bearing  them  out  for  the  day  from  grey  alleys  and  slums  — 
A  day  in  the  forest  of  Epping  grown  green  for  their  sakes. 

Listless  and  stolid  they  crouch,  everlastingly  tired, 
Mere  bundles  of  patience  outworn,  half-deaf  and  half-blind, 
Save  only  one  apple-cheeked  grannie,  more  brisk  than  the  others, 
Who,  remembering,  with  youth  in  her  eyes  and  the  old  dreams 

desired, 
Sits  kissing  her  hand  to  the  drivers  who  follow  behind. 


357 


SIGHT 

By  the  lamplit  stall  I  loitered,  feasting  my  eyes 
On  colours  ripe  and  rich  for  the  heart's  desire  — 
Tomatoes,  redder  than  Krakatoa's  fire, 
Oranges  like  old  sunsets  over  Tyre, 
And  apples  golden-green  as  the  glades  of  Paradise. 

And  as  I  lingered,  lost  in  divine  delight, 

My  heart  thanked  God  for  the  goodly  gift  of  sight 

And  all  youth's  lively  senses  keen  and  quick  .  .  . 

When  suddenly,  behind  me  in  the  night, 

I  heard  the  tapping  of  a  blind  man's  stick. 


358 


THE  GORSE 

In  dream,  again  within  the  clean,  cold  hell 
Of  glazed  and  aching  silence  he  was  trapped  ; 
And,  closing  in,  the  blank  walls  of  his  cell 
Crushed  stifling  on  him  .  .  .  when  the  bracken  snapped, 
Caught  in  his  clutching  fingers:  and  he  lay 
Awake  upon  his  back  among  the  fern, 
With  free  eyes  travelling  the  wide  blue  day 
Unhindered,  unremembering;  while  a  burn 
Tinkled  and  gurgled  somewhere  out  of  sight, 
Unheard  of  him,  till,  suddenly  aware 
Of  its  cold  music,  shivering  in  the  light, 
He  raised  himself ;  and  with  far-ranging  stare 
Looked  all  about  him :  and,  with  dazed  eyes  wide 
Saw,  still  as  in  a  numb,  unreal  dream, 
Black  figures  scouring  a  far  hill-side, 
With  now  and  then  a  sunlit  rifle's  gleam; 
And  knew  the  hunt  was  hot  upon  his  track: 
Yet  hardly  seemed  to  mind,  somehow,  just  then  .  .  . 
But  kept  on  wondering  why  they  looked  so  black 
On  that  hot  hillside,  all  those  little  men 
Who  scurried  round  like  beetles  —  twelve,  all  told  .  .  . 
He  counted  them  twice  over;  and  began 
A  third  time  reckoning  them,  but  could  not  hold 
His  starved  wits  to  the  business,  while  they  ran 
So  brokenly,  and  always  stuck  at  "  five  "... 
And  "  One,  two,  three,  four,  five  "  a  dozen  times 
He  muttered  ..."  Can  you  catch  a  fish  alive?  " 
Sang  mocking  echoes  of  old  nursery-rhymes 
Through  the  strained,  tingling  hollow  of  his  head. 
And  now  almost  remembering,  he  was  stirred 
To  pity  them ;  and  wondered  if  they'd  fed 
Since  he  had,  or  if,  ever  since  they'd  heard 
Two  nights  ago  the  sudden  signal-gun 
That  raised  alarm  of  his  escape,  they,  too, 
Had  fasted  in  the  wilderness,  and  run 
With  nothing  but  the  thirsty  wind  to  chew, 
And  nothing  in  their  bellies  But  a  fill 
Of  cold  peat-water,  till  their  heads  were  light  .  .  . 
359 


360  THOROUGHFARES 

The  crackling  of  a  rifle  on  the  hill 
Rang  in  his  ears ;  and  stung  to  headlong  flight, 
He  started  to  his  feet ;  and  through  the  brake 
He  plunged  in  panic,  heedless  of  the  sun 
That  burned  his  cropped  head  to  a  red-hot  ache 
Still  racked  with  crackling  echoes  of  the  gun. 

Then  suddenly  the  sun-enkindled  fire 

Of  gorse  upon  the  moor-top  caught  his  eye; 

And  that  gold  glow  held  all  his  heart's  desire, 

As,  like  a  witless,  flame-bewildered  fly, 

He  blundered  towards  the  league-wide  yellow  blaze, 

And  tumbled  headlong  on  the  spikes  of  bloom ; 

And  rising,  bruised  and  bleeding  and  adaze, 

Struggled  through  clutching  spines:  the  dense  sweet 

fume 

Of  nutty,  acrid  scent  like  poison  stealing 
Through  his  hot  blood :  the  bristling  yellow  glare 
Spiking  his  eyes  with  fire,  till  he  went  reeling, 
Stifling  and  blinded,  on  —  and  did  not  care 
Though  he  were  taken  —  wandering  round  and  round, 
"  Jerusalem  the  Gojden  "  quavering  shrill, 
Changing  his  tune  to  "  Tommy  Tiddler's  Ground  ": 
Till,  just  a  lost  child  on  that  dazzling  hill, 
Bewildered  in  a  glittering  golden  maze 
Of  stinging  scented  fire,  he  dropped,  quite  done, 
A  shrivelling  wisp  within  a  world  ablaze 
Beneath  a  blinding  sky,  one  blaze  of  sun. 

1908-14. 


BORDERLANDS 

(1912-1914) 


BORDERLANDS 


THE  QUEEN'S  CRAGS 

Scene:  The  Queen's  Crags,  a  fantastic  group  of  rocks  and  boul- 
ders on  the  fells.  MICHAEL  CROZIER,  a  young  hind,  lies  in 
the  evening  glow  at  the  foot  of  the  tallest  crag,  with  a  far- 
away look  in  his  eyes.  Presently  GEORGE  DODD,  an  old 
hind,  enters  and  stops  on  seeing  MICHAEL. 

GEORGE.     Of  all  the  lazy  louts ! 
It's  here,  then,  that  you  moon  away  the  evenings, 
Stretched  like  a  collie,  basking  in  the  sun, 
Your  noble  self  for  company! 
At  your  age,  Michael,  lad, 
I'd  have  thought  shame  to  find  myself  alone, 
A  night  like  this: 

And  such  a  lass  as  Peggie,  lonesome,  too. 
I  wasted  little  time,  when  I  was  young; 
And  lost  no  Summer  evenings  by  myself. 
I  always  was  a  lad  among  the  lasses, 
And  not  a  moony,  moping  gowk  like  you. 
No  sooner  was  I  through, 
Than  I  was  washed  and  out. 
Sunlight,  moonlight,  starlight,  dark, 
I  never  missed  the  screeching  of  the  owls, 
Nor  listened  to  it  lonesome. 
But  you,  I've  never  seen  you  with  a  lass: 
Though  Peggie  Haliburton,  she  .  .  . 
Lad,  take  your  pleasure,  while  you're  young, 
And  Summer  nights  be  fine. 
Though  youth  and  Summer  nights  seem  long  — 
Long  enough  to  last  for  ever, 
For  ever  and  a  day, 
Before  you've  looked  about  a  bit, 
Old  age  and  Winter  are  upon  you. 
To-day  you're  lithe  and  lusty, 
And  to-morrow, 

363 


364  BORDERLANDS 

A  grizzled,  pithless,  aching  bag-of-bones. 

And  Peggie  Haliburton,  too, 

The  lass  was  made  for  love  and  Summer  nights: 

Yet  she's  out  walking  with  herself, 

And  no  one  by  to  see  her  but  the  peewits, 

Or,  maybe,  a  cock  grouse  or  so: 

A  bonnie  young  thing  wasting. 

[He  pauses,  looking  at  MICHAEL,  who  pays  little  heed, 
but  still  lies  with  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes.] 

But,  maybe,  Michael,  you're  like  me, 

And  cannot  'bide  red  hair? 

I  never  liked  a  red-haired  wench, 

If  there  were  any  other  by. 

Red  „  „  .  it's  the  colour  of  the  fox  and  kestrel, 

And  stoat  and  weasel,  and  such  thieves  and  vermin. 

And,  as  for  stock,  if  I  could  have  my  way, 

I  shouldn't  have  a  red  beast  on  the  farm. 

I'd  never  let  a  chestnut  stallion  whinny 

Within  a  mile  of  Skarlindyke. 

I'd  sell  all  chestnut  colts  and  fillies: 

The  red  bull,  too,  should  go : 

And  no  red  heifer  should  come  nigh  the  byres. 

I'd  have  all  black,  coal-black: 

Black  stallions  and  black  mares: 

Black  bulls,  black  stirks  and  heifers: 

All  black,  save  tups  and  ewes: 

I'm  somehow  not  so  partial  to  black  sheep. 

But,  in  this  world,  we  cannot  all  be  farmers, 

And  lords  of  all  creation. 

Still,  even  hinds  may  have  their  fancies: 

And  you  and  I,  lad,  cannot  'bide  red  hair: 

And  so,  red  Peggy  walks  alone. 

Ay !  and  it  seems  that  hinds  can  hold  their  tongues, 

At  least,  the  youngsters  can; 

For  my  old  tongue  keeps  wagging, 

And  wags  to  little  purpose  seemingly. 

It  must  have  lost  its  sting ; 

Or,  Peggy's  not  in  favour. 


[A  pause.] 


Well,  Mister  Mum,  you've  chosen  a  snug  corner 
To  stretch  your  lazy  bones  in. 


BORDERLANDS  365 

[Sitting  down  by  MICHAEL,  with  his  back  against  the 
rock.} 

I  think  I'll  bear  you  company  awhile, 

If  you  can  call  a  hedgehog  company, 

Tight-curled,  and  prickles  bristling! 

Still,  though  you  mayn't  be  over-lively, 

You're  livelier  than  Myself. 

I  find  him  but  glum  company  — 

A  grumpy,  sulky  beggar, 

Who  keeps  on  telling  me  I'm  getting  old, 

And  'minding  me  of  happiness  gone  by. 

Myself  and  I  were  never  fellows : 

But  ill-yoked  at  the  best  of  times, 

We  seldom  pulled  together: 

And,  Lord !  the  times  that  we've  upset  the  cart! 

So  you  must  serve  to  keep  the  peace  between  us, 

By  listening  to  my  chatter. 

I'm  always  happiest,  talking, 

For  then  I  needn't  listen  to  Myself. 

Though  I,  when  I  was  your  age,  Michael, 

I  should  have  scorned  an  old  man's  company, 

While  any  lass  .  .  . 

And  on  Midsummer  Eve! 

[He  pauses  again:  then  resumes,  pointing  to  a  pillared 
rock,  standing  apart  from  the  others.} 

So,  yon's  the  tooth,  chipped  out  of  the  Queen's  comb, 

When  Arthur  pitched  a  rock  at  her, 

While  she  was  combing  out  her  yellow  hair, 

And  he,  at  his  own  Crags,  a  mile  away ! 

It  must  have  been  a  spanker  of  a  comb, 

To  bear  so  brave  a  tooth! 

I  wonder  what  she'd  said,  to  make  him  pitch  it  ... 

Though  likely  she'd  said  nothing, 

But  just  sat  combing  out  her  yellow  hair, 

And  combing,  combing,  combing. 

A  woman  with  a  devil  in  her  tongue, 

When  she  plays  mum,  is  far  more  aggravating. 

Sometimes,  when  Susan  sits  and  combs  her  hair, 

At  night,  like  Arthur's  Queen, 

And  combs,  and  combs, 

Till  I'm  half-mad  with  watching  from  the  bed, 


366  BORDERLANDS 

I  only  stop  Myself, — 

The  surly  chap  who  wants  the  light  out, — 

Just  in  the  nick  of  time 

To  loose  the  pillow  from  his  clutch. 

King  Arthur  must  have  been  a  handsome  lad, 

To  chuck  a  pebble  that  size  near  a  mile. 

But,  there  were  giants  in  those  days: 

And  he  ... 

MICHAEL.     A  lie! 

GEORGE.     A  lie?     Of  course,  it's  all  a  lie: 
But  it's  a  brave  lie,  Michael! 
I  doubt  if  there  were  ever  King  or  Queen, 
In  these  outlandish  parts. 

MICHAEL.     There  was  a  Queen, 
Though  she  was  not  a  giant. 
She  was  no  bigger  than  .  .  . 
Than  you,  or  me  .  .  . 
Or  Peggy  .  .  .  she  was  nearer  Peggy's  height. 

GEORGE.     You  seem  to  know  a  deal  about  her,  Michael. 
Just  Peggy's  height? 
And  red-haired,  too,  I'll  warrant? 
You've  found  your  tongue: 
And  got  it  pat: 
And  all  the  gospel  truth ! 

But,  how  d'you  come  by  so  much  truth,  I  wonder? 
Scarcely  by  honest  means,  I  doubt. 
And  how  d'you  know  .  .  . 

MICHAEL.     Because  I've  seen  her. 

GEORGE.    Who? 

MICHAEL.     The  Queen. 

GEORGE.     You've  seen  the  Queen? 
Well,  that's  a  brave  one,  Michael! 
Myself  can  sometimes  tell  a  little  one ; 
But  he  was  ever  but  a  craven  liar. 
His  were  but  cheepy  bantams,  barely  hatched: 
While  yours,  why,  it's  a  strutting  cock,  and  crowing, 
Comb  pricked,  and  hackles  quivering! 
There's  nothing  like  a  big,  bold,  brazen  lie 
To  warm  the  blood  .  .  . 

MICHAEL.     I'm  telling  truth. 
I've  seen  her  twice. 

GEORGE.     Nay!  stop,  before  you  spoil  it  all. 
A  lie,  blown  out  too  big,  will  burst. 

MICHAEL.     It  is  no  lie  ... 


BORDERLANDS  367 

.  / 

I  saw  the  Queen,  herself. 

GEORGE.     You  saw  her  .  .  .  where? 

MICHAEL.     I  saw  her  here. 

GEORGE.     Here?     In  the  Crags? 
I  trust  she's  not  here  now : 
And  listening  down  behind  the  rock. 
Lord!  if  she'd  heard  Myself  about  the  combing! 
But  Queens  should  be  above  eavesdropping; 
And  know  the  luck  of  listeners. 

Though,  how  d'you  know  her,  lad,  for  Arthur's  Queen? 
Did  she  sing  out: 
"  Hi!  lad,  I'm  Arthur's  Queen!  " 

MICHAEL.     She  wore  a  crown  .  .  . 
A  golden  crown  .  .  . 

GEORGE.     I  saw  a  Queen  once,  with  a  golden  crown ; 
And  sitting  on  a  golden  throne, 
Set  high  upon  a  monster  golden  ball, 
Drawn  in  a  golden  chariot  through  the  streets 
By  four-and-twenty  little  piebald  ponies, 
At  Hexham,  on  a  fairday,  long  ago  .  .  . 
Ay,  long  ago,  in  my  young  days, 
When  circuses  were  circuses. 
They  made  a  brave  procession  through  the  town, 
To  draw  the  folk  in  after  them  .  .  . 
Though  outside  shows  are  usually  the  bravest  .  .  . 
But,  not  that  time  .  .  . 

She  was  a  Queen,  a  black-eyed,  gypsy  Queen  .  .  . 
Black  eyes  that  sparked  .  .  . 
And  tilted  chin  .  .  . 
You  never  saw  .  .  . 

MICHAEL.     Mine  was  no  circus-queen. 
I  saw  her  first,  when  I  was  but  a  boy, 
Six  years  ago,  to-day  .  .  .  Midsummer  Eve  .  .  . 
I'd  spent  the  whole  day,  playing  round  the  Crags 
At  Kings  and  castles, 
Crowning  or  killing, 
Or  conquering  myself, 
Or  putting  black-faced  bands 
Of  robber-sheep  to  rout; 
Or  seeking  to  take,  unawares, 
Some  traitor  stoat  or  weasel 
That  spied  on  my  dominions. 
When,  ere  I  knew, 
The  sky  was  black, 


368  BORDERLANDS 

And  broke  in  flame, 

And  burst  in  thunder  .  .  . 

And  rain,  such  rain  .  .  . 

Lightning,  flash  on  flash  .  .  . 

Thunder,  brattle  after  brattle  .  .  . 

Rain  and  rain  .  .  . 

You  never  saw  such  rain  — 

One  pelting,  crashing,  teeming,  drenching  downpour. 

Soaked  to  the  skin,  in  no  time, 

And  scared  out  of  my  senses, 

I  crept  into  a  hole  among  the  rocks, 

A  hole  I'd  never  spied  before, 

No  bigger  than  a  fox's  earth. 

I  had  to  wriggle  on  my  belly, 

To  squeeze  myself  in,  head-first; 

And  half-expecting,  every  moment, 

To  feel  a  vixen's  teeth, 

Though  more  I  feared  the  lightning  at  my  heels. 

When,  all  at  once,  my  arms  were  free: 

And,  lifting  up  my  head,  I  found 

I'd  almost  crawled  into  a  chamber, 

A  big  square  chamber  in  the  rock, 

That  I  had  ne'er  heard  tell  of  — 

Four  blue  and  shiny  walls,  that  soared 

Sheer  to  the  sky  —  a  still  and  starry  sky, 

Though,  in  the  world  without,  black  storm  was  raging. 

But,  I'd  no  eyes  for  stars, 

Nor  even  wits  to  wonder  at  the  quiet. 

My  eyes  were  on  the  Queen, 

Who  sat  beside  a  hearth  of  burning  peats, 

Right  in  the  middle  of  the  chamber, 

A  golden  crown  upon  her  golden  head ; 

And  she  was  spinning  golden  wool, 

That  flickered  in  the  firelight, 

Until  it  seemed  that  she  was  spinning  flame, 

Or  her  own  fire-bright  hair. 

GEORGE.     Red  hair!     And  she'd  red  hair  .  .  . 
Then,  you  had  only  snoozed ; 
And  dreamt  of  Peggy. 
I  saw  my  queen  by  daylight. 

MICHAEL.     Peggy! 
I  tell  you,  'twas  the  Queen. 
I  saw  her,  plainly  as  I  see  yon  rabbit; 
She  wore  a  furry  cloak  of  weasel  skins, 


BORDERLANDS  369 

Or  something  like, 

Though  round  the  neck  'twas  white  — 

White  as  yon  rabbit's  scut  .  .  . 

For  it  was  mortal  cold  in  that  stone  chamber. 

GEORGE.     Was  anybody  with  her? 

MICHAEL.     I  only  saw  the  Queen, 
And  her,  but  for  a  moment. 
She  lifted  up  her  eyes; 
And  I  was  frightened  .  .  . 
And  wriggled  backwards  like  an  adder, 
Till  I  was  in  the  storm  again. 
And  then,  I  scuttled  home  — 
A  rabbit  to  its  warren  — 
Across  the  splashy  heather : 
The  lightning,  playing  round  my  heels, 
The  thunder,  rattling  round  my  head, 
Though  it  was  not  the  lightning  or  the  thunder 
That  scared  me  now  .  .  . 
I'd  not  a  thought  for  them  .  .  . 
My  heart  was  flying  from  that  quiet  chamber 
That  stone-cold  chamber,  roofed  with  quiet  stars  .  .  . 
And  from  the  eyes  .  .  . 
The  eyes  I  had  not  seen. 

GEORGE.     And  where's  this  stony  chamber,  then? 

MICHAEL.     I  never  found  the  way  to  it  again, 
Though  I've  ransacked  the  Crags  for  it, 
Since  I  grew  big,  and  bolder. 

GEORGE.     A  vixen  in  her  den, 
For  she'd  be  red  enough. 
Yet,  you'd  have  felt  her  teeth  for  certain ! 
It  must  have  been  a  dream. 

MICHAEL.     I  might  have  thought  so,  too, 
Had  I  not  seen  the  Queen,  again. 

GEORGE.     Again  ? 
I  saw  my  Queen,  again,  too. 
But  what  was  your  Queen's  name? 

MICHAEL.     Queen  Guinevere. 

GEORGE.     Mine  had  a  braver  name. 
They  called  her,  Donna  Bella  di  Braganza, 
Castilian  Queen  of  the  Equestrian  World. 
I  spelled  it  out  upon  the  rainbow  bills 
The  clown,  who  wagged  the  tail  of  the  procession, 
Was  scattering  from  his  donkey-cart. 
I  saw  my  Queen  again  .  .  . 


370  BORDERLANDS 

My  gipsy  Queen! 

My  black-haired,  black-eyed  gipsy  .  .  . 

You,  and  your  red-haired  Queens ! 

I'd  give  a  world  of  red-haired  Guineveres, 

To  see  those  gipsy  eyes  again  .  .  . 

I  smell  the  sawdust  now  .  .  .  and  oranges  .  .  . 

'Twas  in  the  tent  .  .  . 

She'd  doffed  her  robes  and  crown  .  .  . 

I  knew  her  by  the  flashing  of  her  eyes, 

Tripping  nimbly  into  the  ring, 

So  brave  in  yellow  silk,  skin-fitting  silk, 

Yellow  as  dandelions, 

And  sprinkled  all  with  spangles ; 

And  yellow  ribbons  in  her  hair, 

Her  jet-black  hair  that  hung  about  her  shoulders. 

I  see  her  tripping  now  into  the  ring, 

With  flashing  eyes  and  teeth, 

Clean-limbed,  and  mettlesome  as  the  coal-black  mare, 

Coal-black  from  mane  to  fetlocks, 

That  pawed  and  champed  to  greet  her  .  .  . 

And  there's  naught  bonnier  than  a  bonnie  mare  .  .  . 

She  clapped  its  glossy  neck: 

It  nuzzled  her: 

Then  ere  I  knew, 

She'd  lighted  on  its  flanks, 

Nimble  and  springy  as  a  thistle-down : 

And  they  were  racing  round  the  ring  together, 

She,  standing  tip-toe, 

And  with  ne'er  a  rein, 

A  straw  between  her  teeth, 

Her  flashing  teeth  .  .  . 

And  tilted  chin  .  .  . 

And  flashing  eyes  .  .  . 

Her  beautiful  long  hair,  as  black  and  silky, 

As  black  and  silky  as  the  mare's  long  mane, 

Was  streaming  out  behind  .  .  . 

And  ribbons  streaming  .  .  . 

Spangles  sparkling  .  .  . 

Sawdust  flying, 

Whips,  a-cracking  .  .  . 

Music,  playing  .  .  . 

And  now,  she  sprang 

Through  flaming  hoops, 

And  my  heart,  through  the  fire  with  her, 


BORDERLANDS  371 


And  lighted  on  the  steamy  flanks: 

And  on,  and  on, 

And  round,  and  round  the  ring, 

Till  I  was  dazzled  dizzy, 

And  out  of  breath,  but  watching  her. 

And  what,  with  crack  of  whips  .  .  . 

Thudding  thresh  of  hoofs  .  .  . 

Smell  of  spirting  sawdust  .  .  . 

Crash  of  drums  and  trumpets  .  .  . 

Flaming  hoops  of  fire  .  .  . 

Flying  hair  .  .  . 

Yellow  ribbons  .  .  . 

Flashing  teeth  .  .  . 

And  flashing  eyes  .  .  . 

My  blood  was  mad,  was  mad  for  her, 

I  wanted  to  be  flying  round, 

For  ever  flying  round  with  her, 

For  ever,  and  for  ever  .  .  . 

I  wanted  her 

As  I  have  never  wanted  woman, 

Before  or  since  .  .  . 


[A  pause.] 


And  yet,  I've  little  doubt 

That  she'd  have  been  a  poor  hand  with'  the  porridge, 

And  poorer  at  the  milking, 

Though  she  could  manage  horses ; 

And,  maybe,  'twas  as  well 

That  I  walked  home  that  night  with  Susan. 

Within  nine  months,  we'd  wedded. 

There's  naught  amiss  with  Susan's  porridge, 

And  she  could  milk  a  stone. 

She's  been  a  good  and  careful  wife  enough. 

She  never  spares  herself  .  .  .  nor  me. 

Though,  I  dare  say,  I'm  even  more  a  trial 

To  her,  than  to  myself. 

And,  though  I'm  often  harking  back, 

And  sometimes  hanker  .  .  . 

Somehow,  I  cannot  see  the  Donna  Bella, 

In  yellow  skin-tights,  cleaning  out  the  byre ! 

And  yet! 

MICHAEL.     I  saw  Queen  Guinevere,  again, 
Three  years  ago,  upon  Midsummer  Eve. 


372  BORDERLANDS 

She  sat  upon  a  little  hill,  and  sang: 

And  combed  her  long  red  hair,  beside  the  lough  — 

Just  sitting  like  a  leveret  in  the  sun 

To  sleek  its  fur  — 

And  all  about  her,  grey  snipe  darted,  drumming. 

She  combed  her  long  red  hair 

That  tumbled  down  her  shoulders, 

Her  long  hair,  red  as  bracken, 

As  bracken  in  October; 

And  with  a  gleam  of  wind  in  it, 

A  light  of  running  water. 

Her  crown  was  in  the  heather,  at  her  feet: 

And,  now  and  then,  a  snipe  would  perch  upon  it; 

And  with  his  long  neb  preen  his  gleaming  feathers, 

As  if  to  mock  the  Queen, 

Queen  Guinevere,  a-combing  her  long  hair 

That  tumbled  over  a  gown  of  blue  .  .  . 

As  blue  and  shimmery  as  a  mallard's  neck  .  .  . 

And  with  a  light  of  running  water: 

And,  as  she  sang,  'twas  like  the  curlew  calling, 

And  rippled  through  my  heart  like  curlew  calling, 

Like  curlew  calling  in  the  month  of  April, 

And  with  a  clear  cool  noise  of  running  water. 

I  dropped  upon  my  belly  in  the  bracken : 

And  lay  and  watched  her,  combing  her  red  hair: 

And  hearkened  to  her  singing  .  .  . 

And  I  was  sorry,  when  she'd  done,  at  last, 

And  took  her  long  red  hair,  and  twisted  it, 

And  fixed  it  with  a  golden  pin. 

Though  she'd  but  little  need  of  crown, 

Whose  hair  was  golden  crown  enough, 

She  stooped  to  take  her  gold  crown  from  the  heather, 

And  set  it  on  her  brow : 

Then  stood  upright, 

Stood  like  a  birch-tree  in  the  wind, 

A  silver  birch-tree  in  the  sunset  wind 

That  ripples  through  its  leaves  like  running  water; 

The  little  snipe  about  her  drumming  .  .  . 

And  then,  I  looked  into  her  eyes, 

Looked  into  golden  pools, 

Pools,  golden  'neath  October  bracken  .  .  . 

And  into  the  heart  of  fire  .  .  . 

[A  pause.] 


BORDERLANDS  373 

A  shrew's  cold  muzzle  touched  my  hand, 
Among  the  bracken,  startling  me  .  .  . 
And  she  was  gone  ... 

GEORGE  [after  a  pause].     And  so,  the  leveret  bolted! 
You  never  saw  her  more? 
So  all  tales  end  .  .  . 
At  least  the  true  tales  told  by  life  itself. 
Though  I  ...  I  saw  my  Queen  again  .  .  . 
Yet  .  .  .  with  a  difference  .  .  . 
'Twas  at  the  next  fair  after  I  was  married. 
I  thought  I'd  like  a  glimpse  of  her  once  more: 
Though  I  had  much  ado,  persuading  Susan: 
She'd  never  been  inside  a  circus; 
And  thought  it  sorry  waste  of  silver. 
But,  once  inside  the  tent, 
She  liked  it  well  enough: 
And  gaped  and  grinned  her  money's  worth. 
And  I  ...  I  sat,  and  waited, 
And  waited  for  my  gipsy  .  .  . 
And  snuffed  the  smell  of  sawdust: 
While  Susan  giggled  at  the  clown  — 
A  yellow-legged  old  corncrake  — 
And  nudged  me  with  her  elbow; 
And  asked  me  if  I'd  ever  heard  the  like. 
But,  I'd  no  ears  nor  eyes 
For  any  save  my  gipsy  .  .  . 
And  she  .  .  .  she  never  came. 
Another  woman  rode  the  coal-black  mare  — 
A  red-haired  jumping-jenny  — 
And  there  was  cracking  whips  .  .  . 
And  sawdust  flying  .  .  . 
Drums  and  trumpets  .  .  . 
Flaming  hoops  .  .  . 
And  all  the  razzle-dazzle  .  .  . 
But  not  my  black-eyed  gipsy. 
And  I  sat,  waiting  still,  when  all  was  over, 
Until  the  tent  was  empty  .  .  . 
Sat  waiting  for  the  Donna  Bella  .  .  . 
Till  Susan  tugged  me  by  the  jacket, 
And  asked  if  I'd  sit  gaping  there  all  night. 
She  got  me  out,  at  last. 
And  then  ...  I  met  her  .  .  . 
Met  her,  face  to  face, 
My  gipsy  Queen ! 


374  BORDERLANDS 

But,  oh!  ...  how  changed  .  .  . 

Except  her  eyes  .  .  . 

I  knew  her  by  her  eyes: 

For  they  still  flashed  and  sparkled, 

Though  she  was  bent  and  hunched, 

And  hobbled  with  a  crutch. 

She'd  had  a  tumble,  since  I'd  seen  her  flying 

Around  the  ring,  as  light  as  thistle-down. 

She  clutched  me  with  a  skinny  hand, 

Wanting  to  tell  my  fortune: 

But  Susan  wouldn't  let  her: 

She  said,  a  married  man  had  got  his  fortune; 

So  needn't  waste  his  earnings. 

The  gipsy  bit  the  straw  between  her  teeth, 

Her  flashing  teeth; 

And,  tilting  her  proud  chin, 

She  laughed  at  that,  with  merry  eyes 

Twinkling  'neath  her  yellow  kerchief  — 

Dandelion  yellow  — 

Bound  about  her  jet-black  hair, 

The  hair  that  I'd  seen  flying  free  .  .  . 

And  when  she  laughed, 

And  looked  into  my  eyes  .  .  . 

The  heather  was  afire  .  .  . 

I  could  have  caught  her  to  me, 

There  and  then  .  .  . 

Whipped  her  up,  and  run  with  her 

To  the  world's  end,  and  over  .  .  . 

But,  Susan  .  .  .  dragging  on  my  arm  .  .  . 

Ay!  broken  as  she  was, 

And  hunched  and  hobbling, 

I  would  have  wedded  her  outright, 

Had  it  not  been  for  Susan  .  .  . 

I  lost  her  in  the  crowd  .  .  . 

And  never  saw  her  more  .  .  . 

[Pause.] 

And  so,  went  home  to  decent  porridge : 

And  'twas  as  well,  maybe. 

A  man  must  have  his  meat,  if  he's  to  work, 

And  victuals  count  for  much. 

And  Susan's  ever  been  a  careful  wife, 

And  had  no  easy  time  of  it. 

[Pause.] 


BORDERLANDS  375 

But,  love's  a  queer  thing,  Michael. 

It  comes  to  you  .  .  .  like  that!  [striking  his  hands  together], 

I've  known  a  man  walk  seven  miles  each  night 

To  see  a  woman's  shadow  on  the  blind. 

And,  in  the  end, 

It's  one,  and  one  alone,  that  holds  you, 

Be't  Donna  Bella,  Guinevere,  or  Peggy. 

[Pause.] 

But  you  .  .  .  you  never  saw  your  carroty  Queen, 
Combing  her  long  red  hair  again,  I'll  warrant. 

MICHAEL  [slowly,  as  in  a  trance].     I  saw  her  once,  upon 

Midsummer  Eve, 
Six  years  ago  .  .  . 

I  saw  her,  twice,  upon  Midsummer  Eve, 
Three  years  ago  .  .  . 
I'll  see  her  thrice  .  .  . 

GEORGE.     And,  it's  Midsummer  Eve! 

MICHAEL  [listening].     And  nigh  the  hour  .  .  . 
And  hark,  the  snipe  a-drumming! 

GEORGE.     You  cannot  think  .  .  . 
It's  all  a  pack  of  lies  .  .  . 
Or  else,  you're  daft,  clean,  daft ! 
Your  eyes  are  queer  and  wild.  .  .  . 
You  do  not  see  her  now? 
No !     No !   '  I  thought  not ! 
It's  all  stuff  and  nonsense, 
Your  silly  tale  about  a  red-haired  Queen, 
Who's  been  dead  dust  a  thousand  years,  or  more. 

MICHAEL  [leaping  to  his  feet].     She's  coming  .  .  .  com- 
ing now  .  .  . 

GEORGE  [leaping  up,  too,  and  gripping  MICHAEL'S  arm]. 

No!     No! 

You're  crazy,  surely  .  .  . 

Yet  .  .  .  queer  things  happen  on  the  fells,  at  times  .  .  . 
And  on  Midsummer  Eve  .  .  . 

MICHAEL     [listening     more     intently].     She's     drawing 

slowly  nearer  .  .  . 
I  hear  her  silks  a-rustling  through  the  grass  .  .  . 

GEORGE  [listening].     I  seem  to  hear  .  .  . 
What  are  you  gaping  at? 

MICHAEL  [looking  up].     The  Queen!     The  Queen! 

[They    both    stand,    spellbound,    gazing    at    a    woman 


376  BORDERLANDS 

standing  on  the  crest  of  a  boulder,  burning  like  a 
golden  flame  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 
Presently,  looking  down,  and  seeing  them,  she 
laughs.] 

GEORGE    [shaking   himself,  while  MICHAEL  still  stands, 

spellbound}.     It's  Peggy  Haliburtdn,  after  all! 
[To  PEGGY.]     Why,  Michael  said:  'twas  Arthur's  Queen. 
He  called  her  some  outlandish  name; 
And  said,  she'd  long  red  foxy  hair, 
And  eyes  like  pools ; 
And  sang  just  like  the  curlew. 
But  he'll  be  telling  you  himself : 
For,  all  along,  I  knew  'twas  you  he  meant. 
Men's  tongues  wag  madly  on  Midsummer  Eve: 
And  I've  been  talking,  too, 
A  pack  of  nonsense, 
As  Michael,  here,  could  tell  you, 
If  he'd  not  too  much  sense  to  heed 
An  old  man's  witless  blathering. 
Well,  I  had  best  be  going; 
And  getting  home  to  Susan. 
She  doesn't  hold  with  owls,  and  such  like. 

1912. 


BLOODYBUSH  EDGE 

Bloodybush  Edge  is  a  remote  spot  on  the  borderline  between  Eng- 
land and  Scotland,  marked  by  a  dumpy  obelisk,  on  which  is 
inscribed  an  old  scale  of  tolls.  A  rough  sandy  road  runs  down 
across  the  dark  moors,  into  England  on  the  one  hand,  and  into 
Scotland  on  the  other.  It  is  a  fine,  starry  night  in  early  Sep- 
tember. DAFT  DICK,  a  fantastic  figure,  in  appearance  half- 
gamekeeper,  half -tramp  (dressed  as  he  is  in  cast-off  clothes  of 
country-gentlemen}  swings  up  the  road  from  the  Scottish  side, 
singing. 

"  Now  Liddisdale  has  ridden  a  raid ; 
But  I  wat  they  better  hae  stayed  at  hame ; 
For  Michael  o'  Winfield,  he  lies  dead ; 
And  Jock  o'  the  Side  is  prisoner  ta'en." 

[He  stands  for  a  moment,  looking  across  the  fells,  which  are 
very  dark,  in  spite  of  the  starry  sky;  then  flings  himself 
down  in  the  heather,  with  his  back  to  the  obelisk,  and 
lights  his  pipe.  Presently,  he  sees  a  dark  figure,  stum- 
bling with  uncertain  steps  across  the  boggy  moor;  and 
watches  it  keenly  as  it  approaches,  until  it  reaches  the 
road,  when  he  sees  that  it  is  a  strange  man,  evidently  a 
tramp.] 

TRAMP.     A  track,  at  last,  thank  God ! 

DICK.  Ay,  there  be  whiles 

When  beaten  tracks  are  welcome. 

TRAMP.  Who  the  ...  Oh! 

I  didn't  count  on  having  company 
Again  in  this  world ;  and  when  I  heard  a  voice 
I  thought  it  must  be  another  ghost.     It's  queer 
Hearing  a  voice  bleat  when  you  haven't  heard 
A  mortal  voice  for  ages.     I've  not  changed 
A  word  with  a  soul  since  noon ;  and  when  you  spoke 
It  gave  me  quite  a  turn.     A  feather,  Lord ! 
But  it  wouldn't  take  the  shadow  of  a  feather 
To  knock  me  over.     I'm  in  such  a  stickle, 
377 


378  BORDERLANDS 

Dead-beat,  and  fit  to  drop.     To  drop!     I've  dropped 

A  hundred  times  already,  humpty-dumpty ! 

Why,  I've  been  tumbling  in  and  out  black  holes, 

Since  sunset,  on  that  god-forsaken  moor, 

Half-crazed  with  fear  of  ...  Ah,  you've  got  a  light: 

And  I've  been  tramping  all  the  livelong  day 

With  a  pipeful  of  comfort  in  my  waistcoat-pocket; 

And  would  have  swopt  the  frizzling  sun  itself ; 

For  a  rrjatch  to  kindle  it.     Thanks,  mate,  that's  better. 

And  now,  what  was  it  you  were  saying,  Old  Cock, 

When  I  mistook  you  then  for  Hamlet's  father? 

Lord!  if  you'd  seen  him  at  the  "  Elephant," 

In  queer,  blue  sheeny  armour,  you'd  have  shivered. 

"  I  am  thy  father's  spirit,"  he  says,  like  that, 

Down  in  his  boots.     But  you  were  saying 

DICK.  There  are  times 

When  beaten  tracks  are  welcome. 

TRAMP.  True  for  you: 

And  truer  by  a  score  of  bumps,  for  me. 
My  neck's  been  broken  half-a-dozen  times: 
My  body's  just  an  aching  bag  of  bones. 
I'm  one  big  bruise  from  top  to  toe,  as  though 
I'd  played  in  the  Cup  Final,  as  the  ball. 
And  mud,  I'm  mud  to  the  eyes,  and  over,  carrying 
Half  of  the  country  that  I've  passed  through  on  me. 
My  best  suit,  too!     And  I  was  always  faddy 
About  my  clothes.     My  mother  used  to  call  me 
Finicky  Fred.     If  she  could  see  me  now! 
I  couldn't  count  the  times  that  I've  pitched  headlong 
Into  black  bog. 

DICK.  Ay,  there  are  clarty  bits 

In  Foulmire  Moss.     But  what  set  you  stravaging 
Among  the  peat-hags  at  this  time  of  night? 
Unless  you  know  the  tracks  by  heart.  .  .  . 

TRAMP.  I  know 

The  Old  Kent  Road  by  heart. 

DICK.  The  Old  Kent  Road? 

TRAMP.     London,  S.  E.     You've  heard  of  London,  likely? 

DICK.     Ay!     Ay!     I've  heard.  .  .  . 

TRAMP.  Well,  mate,  I've  walked  from  London. 

DICK.     You've  walked  from  London,  here  ? 

TRAMP.  Well,  not  to-day. 

It  must  be  nigh  three  hundred  mile,  I  reckon. 
Just  five  weeks,  yesterday,  since  I  set  out : 


BORDERLANDS  379 

But,  as  you  say,  I've  walked  from  London,  here: 
Though  where  "  here  "  is  the  devil  only  knows! 
What  is  "  here  "  called,  if  it  has  any  name 
But  Back  o'  Beyond,  or  World's  End,  eh  ? 

DICK.  You're  sitting 

On  Bloodybush  Edge  this  moment. 

TRAMP.  To  think  of  that! 

Bloodybush  Edge!     And  that's  what  I  have  come  to; 
While  all  my  friends,  the  men  and  women  I  know, 
Are  strolling  up  and  down  the  Old  Kent  Road, 
Chattering  and  laughing  by  the  lighted  stalls 
And  the  barrows  of  bananas  and  oranges; 
Or  sitting  snugly  in  bars ;  and  here  am  I, 
On  Bloodybush  Edge,  talking  to  Hamlet's  father. 

DICK.     My  name's  Dick  Dodd. 

TRAMP.  Well,  no  offence,  Old  Cock! 

And  Hamlet's  father  was  a  gentleman, 
A  king  of  ghosts ;  and  Lord !  but  he  could  groan. 
My  name's  .  .  .  Jack  Smith :  and  Jack  would  give  a  sovereign, 
A  sovereign  down,  if  he  could  borrow  it, 
And  drinks  all  around,  and  here's  to  you,  and  you! 
Just  to  be  sitting  in  The  Seven  Stars, 
And  listening  to  the  jabber,  just  to  snuff 
A  whiff  of  the  smoke  and  spirit.     Seven  Stars! 
I'm  lodging  under  stars  enough  to-night: 
Seven  times  seven  hundred.  .  .  . 

DICK.  Often  I  have  tried 

To  count  them,  lying  here  upon  my  back: 
But  they're  too  many  for  me.     Just  when  you  think 
You've  reckoned  all  between  two  sprigs  of  heather, 
One  tumbles  from  its  place,  or  else  a  hundred 
Spring  out  of  nowhere.     If  you  only  stare 
Hard  at  the  darkest  patch,  for  long  enough 
You'll  see  that  it's  all  alive  with  little  stars; 
And  there  isn't  any  dark  at  all. 
•   TRAMP.  No  dark! 

If  you'd  been  tumbling  into  those  black  holes, 
You'd  not  think  overmuch  of  these  same  stars. 
I  couldn't  see  my  hand  before  me.     Stars! 
Give  me  the  lamps  along  the  Old  Kent  Road: 
And  I'm  content  to  leave  the  stars  to  you. 
They're  well  enough:  but  hung  a  trifle  high 
For  walking  with  clean  boots.     Now  a  lamp  or  so  ... 

DICK.     If  it's  so  fine  and  brave,  the  Old  Kent  Road, 


38o  BORDERLANDS 

How  is  it  you  came  to  leave  it? 

TRAMP.  I'd  my  reasons. 

DICK.     Reasons!     Queer  reasons  surely  to  set  you  trapesing 
Over  Foulmire  in  the  dark:  though  I  could  travel 
The  fells  from  here  to  Cheviot,  blindfold.     Ay! 
And  never  come  a  cropper. 

TRAMP.  'Twas  my  luck, 

My  lovely  luck,  and  naught  to  do  with  reasons  — 
My  gaudy  luck,  and  the  devilish  dust  and  heat, 
And  hell's  own  thirst  that  drove  me ;  and  too  snug 
A  bed  among  the  heather.     Oversleeping, 
That's  always  played  the  mischief  with  me.     Once 
I  slept  till  three  in  the  morning,  and  .  .  . 

DICK.  Till  three? 

You're  an  early  bird,  if  you  call  that  oversleeping. 
Folk  hereabouts  are  mostly  astir  by  three: 
But,  city-folk,  I  thought.  .  .  . 

TRAMP.  I'm  on  the  night-shift. 

I  sleep  by  day,  for  the  most  part,  like  a  cat. 
That's  why,  though  dog-tired  now,  I  couldn't  sleep 
A  wink  though  you  paid  me  gold  down. 

DICK.  Night-shift,  you! 

And  what  may  your  job  be?     Cat's  night-shift,  likely, 
As  well  as  day's  sleep ! 

TRAMP.  Now,  look  here,  Old  Cock, 

There's  just  one  little  thing  that  we  could  teach  you 
Down  London  way.     Why,  even  babes  in  London 
Know  better  than  to  ask  too  many  questions. 
YOU  ask  no  questions,  and  you'll  hear  no  lies, 
Is  the  first  lesson  that's  hammered  into  them. 
No  London  gentleman  asks  questions.     Lord ! 
If  you  went  "  What's-your-job?  "-ing  down  our  way 
You'd  soon  be  smelling  some  one's  fist,  I  reckon  ; 
Or  tripping  over  somebody  in  the  dark 
Upon  the  stairs:  and  with  a  broken  neck, 
Be  left,  still  asking  questions  in  your  coffin, 
Till  the  worms  had  satisfied  you.     Not  that  I 
Have  anything  to  hide,  myself.     I'm  only 
Advising  you  for  your  own  good.     But,  Old  Chap, 
We  were  talking  of  something  else  .  .  .  that  hell-hot  road, 
I'd  pegged  along  it  through  the  blazing  dust 
From  Bellingham,  till  I  could  peg  no  more; 
My  mouth  was  just  a  limekiln ;  and  each  foot 
One  bleeding  blister.     A  kipper  on  the  grid, 


BORDERLANDS  381 

That's  what  I  was  on  the  road.     And  the  heather  looked 

So  cool  and  cosy,  I  left  the  road  for  a  bit ; 

And  coming  on  a  patch  of  wet  green  moss, 

I  took  my  boots  off;  and  it  was  so  champion 

To  feel  cold  water  squelching  between  my  toes, 

I  paddled  on  like  a  child,  till  I  came  to  a  clump 

Of  heather  in  full  bloom,  just  reeking  honey; 

And  curled  up  in  it,  and  dropt  sound  asleep; 

And,  when  I  wakened,  it  wTas  dark,  pitch-dark, 

For  all  your  stars.     The  sky  was  light  enough, 

Had  I  been  travelling  that  way.     But,  for  the  road, 

I  hadn't  a  notion  of  its  whereabouts. 

A  blessed  babe-in-the-woods  I  was,  clean  lost, 

And  fit  to  cry  for  my  mammy.     Babes-in-the-wood ! 

But  there  were  two  of  them,  for  company, 

And  only  one  of  me,  by  my  lone  self. 

However,  I  said  to  myself :     You've  got  to  spend 

A  night  in  the  heather.     Well,  you've  known  worse  beds, 

And  worse  bed-fellows  than  a  sheep  or  so  — 

Trying  to  make  believe  I  wasn't  frightened. 

And  then,  somehow,  I  couldn't,  God  knows  why! 

But  I  was  scared:  the  loneliness,  and  all; 

The  quietness,  and  the  queer  creepy  noises ; 

And  something  that  I  couldn't  put  a  name  to, 

A  kind  of  feeling  in  my  marrow  bones, 

As  though  the  great  black  hills  against  the  sky 

Had  come  alive  about  me  in  the  night ; 

And  they  were  watching  me ;  as  though  I  stood 

Naked,  in  a  big  room,  with  blind  men  sitting, 

Unseen,  all  round  me,  in  the  quiet  darkness, 

That  was  not  dark  to  them.     And  all  the  stars 

Were  eyeing  me ;  and  whisperings  in  the  heather 

Were  like  cold  water  trickling  down  my  spine : 

And  when  I  heard  a  cough.  .  .  . 

DICK.  A  coughing  sheep. 

TRAMP.     Maybe:  but  'twas  a  coughing  ghost  to  me. 
I've  never  yet  set  eyes  on  a  ghost,  unless  .  .  .    [looking  askance  at 

DICK] 

Though  I've  often  felt  them  near  me.     Once,  when  I  ... 
But,  Lord,  I'm  talking,  talking  .  .  . 

DICK.  I've  seen  ghosts, 

A  hundred  times.     The  ghost  of  reivers  ride 
The  fells  at  night ;  and  you'd  have  ghosts  in  plenty 
About  you,  lad,  though  you  were  blind  to  them. 


382  BORDERLANDS 

But,  why  d'you  fear  them?     There's  no  harm  in  ghosts. 

Even  should  they  ride  over  you,  it's  only 

Like  a  cold  wind  blowing  through  you.     The  other  night, 

As  I  came  down  by  Girsonsfield,  the  ghost 

Of  Parcy  Reed,  with  neither  hands  nor  feet, 

Rode  clean  through  me ;  the  false  Halls,  and  the  Croziers 

Hard  on  his  heels,  though  I  kept  clear  of  them ; 

And  often  I've  heard  him,  cracking  his  hunting-crop, 

On  a  winter's  night,  when  the  winds  were  in  full  cry ; 

And  heard  the  yelp  of  the  pack,  and  the  horn's  halloo, 

Over  the  howl  of  the  storm,  or  caught  at  dawn 

A  glimpse  of  the  tails  of  his  green  hunting-jacket. 

Whenever  you  shudder,  or  break  in  a  cold  sweat, 

Not  knowing  why,  folk  say  that  some  one's  stepping 

Over  your  grave ;  but  that's  all  stuff  and  nonsense. 

It's  only  some  poor  ghost  that's  walking  through  you. 

TRAMP.     Well,  ghosts  or  sheep,  I'd  had  my  fill  of  them; 
Went  all  to  pieces,  took  to  my  heels  and  ran ; 
And  hadn't  run  three  yards,  when  I  pitched  headlong. 
That  was  the  first.     Since  then,  I've  felt  the  bottom 
Of  every  hole,  five  hundred  to  my  reckoning, 
From  there  to  here. 

DICK.  You've  covered  some  rough  ground. 

But  you  have  doubled  back  upon  your  tracks 
If  you  were  making  North. 

TRAMP.  Ay :  I  was  making 

For  Scotland.     I'd  a  notion  .  .  . 

DICK.  Scotland  lies 

Under  your  left  heel,  though  your  right's  in  England. 

TRAMP.     To  think  of  that !     Well,  I  can't  feel  much  difference 
Twixt  one  and  the  other.     Perhaps,  if  I'd  my  boots  off  ... 
But,  Hamlet's  father,  isn't  it  a  king's  bed 
We're  lying  on,  and  sprawling  over  two  countries ! 
And  yet,  I'd  rather  be  in  Millicent  Place, 
London,  S.  E.,  and  sleeping  three  in  a  bed. 
This  room's  too  big  for  me,  too  wide  and  windy; 
The  bed,  too  broad,  and  not  what  I  call  snug: 
The  ceiling,  far  too  high,  and  full  of  eyes. 
I  hate  the  loneliness.     I  like  to  feel 
There  are  houses,  packed  with  people,  all  about  me 
For  miles  on  miles:  I'm  fond  of  company; 
I'm  only  really  happy  in  a  throng, 
Crowds  jostling  thick  and  hot  about  me.     Here 
I  feel,  somehow,  as  if  I  were  walking  naked 


BORDERLANDS  383 

Among  the  hills,  the  last  man  left  alive. 
I  haven't  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  a  house, 
Not  since  I  left  that  blistering  road. 

DICK.  The  nearest 

Is  three  miles  off,  or  more. 

TRAMP.  Well,  country-people 

Should  be  good  neighbours,  and  quiet ;  but,  for  me, 
I'd  rather  be  packed  like  herrings  in  a  barrel. 
I  hate  the  loneliness :  it  makes  me  think  .  .  . 
I'm  fond  of  company ;  too  fond  at  times. 
If  I  hadn't  been  so  fond  of  company 
A  while  back,  I'd  have  hardly  been  lying  now 
On  Bloodybush  Edge,  talking  of  ghosts  at  midnight, 
When  I  might  be  ...  but  it  won't  bear  thinking  on. 
Yet,  even  with  you  beside  me,  Bloodybush  Edge 
Is  a  size  too  big  in  beds  —  leaves  too  much  room 
For  ghosts,  to  suit  my  fancy.     Three  in  a  bed, 
And  you  sleep  sound. 

DICK.  And  why  should  you  fear  ghosts, 

When,  one  fine  night,  you'll  be  a  ghost  yourself? 
How  soon,  who  knows !     Why,  even  at  this  moment, 
If  you  had  broken  your  neck  among  the  moss-hags 
You'd  be  your  own  ghost  sitting  there,  not  you. 
If  you  hadn't  been  so  muddy,  and  so  frightened  .  .  . 
Nay!  but  I've  seen  too  many  ghosts  in  my  time 
For  you  to  take  me  in.     Ghosts  often  lean 
Over  me,  when  I'm  fishing  in  the  moonlight. 
They're  keen,  are  ghosts.     I  sometimes  feel  their  breath 
Upon  my  neck,  when  I  am  guddling  trout ; 
Or  the  clutch  of  their  clammy  fingers  on  my  wrist 
When  I  am  spearing  salmon,  lest  I  should  miss. 
And  always  at  the  burning  of  the  water 
You'll  see  them  lurking  in  the  shadows,  beyond 
The  flare  and  the  smoke  of  the  torches,  in  the  night, 
Eager  as  boys  to  join  in  the  sport ;  and  at  times, 
When  they  have  pressed  too  near,  and  a  torch  has  flared, 
I've  seen  the  live  flame  running  through  their  bodies. 
But  oftenest  they  appear  to  me  when  alone 
I'm  fishing  like  a  heron ;  and  last  night 
As  I  stooped  over  Deadwater,  I  felt  .  .  . 

TRAMP.     And  you're  an  honest  man  to  be  asking  questions 
Of  gentlemen  on  tour!     So,  you're  a  poacher, 
A  common  poacher :  though  it  must  be  rare  sport, 
I've  often  fancied  .  .  . 


384  BORDERLANDS 

DICK.  To  creep  up  to  a  pool 

\Vhere  a  big  bull-trout  lies  beneath  a  boulder 
With  nose  against  the  stream,  his  tail  scarce  flicking; 
To  creep  up  quiet  and  without  a  shadow, 
And  lie  upon  your  belly  in  the  gravel ; 
And  slide  your  hands  as  noiseless  as  an  otter 
Into  the  water,  icy-cold  and  aching, 
And  tickle,  tickle,  till  you  have  him  fuddled ; 
Then  lift  him,  cold  and  slithery,  from  the  burn, 
A  quivering  bit  of  silver  in  the  moonlight  .  .  . 

TRAMP.     Ay,  that  must  be  rare  sport ;  but,  for  myself, 
I'd  rather  manage  without  the  help  of  ghosts. 
Once,  I  remember,  I  was  bending  down  — 
'Twas  in  an  empty  house  ...  I'd  cut  my  thumb, 
The  window  jamming  somehow,  a  nasty  cut: 
The  mark's  still  there  .  .  .   (not  that!  nay,  that's  the  place 
I  was  bitten  by  a  friend)  and  as  I  fumbled 
With  a  damned  tricky  lock,  some  Yankee  patent, 
I  felt  a  ghost  was  standing  close  behind  me, 
And  dared  not  stir,  nor  squint  over  my  shoulder: 
But  crouched  there,  moving  neither  hand  nor  foot, 
Till  I  was  just  a  solid  ache  of  terror, 
And  could  have  squealed  aloud  with  the  numb  cramp, 
And  pins  and  needles  in  my  arms  and  legs. 
And  then  at  last,  when  I  was  almost  dropping, 
I  lost  my  head,  took  to  my  heels,  and  bolted 
Headfirst  down  stairs,  and  through  the  broken  window, 
Leaving  my  kit  and  the  swag,  without  a  thought : 
And  never  coming  to  my  senses,  till 
I  saw  a  bullseye  glimmering  down  the  lane. 
And  then  I  found  my  brow  was  bleeding,  too  — 
At  first  I  thought  'twas  sweat  —  a  three-inch  cut, 
Clean  to  the  bone.     I  had  to  have  it  stitched. 
I  told  the  doctor  that  I'd  put  my  head 
Through  a  window  in  the  dark,  but  not  a  word 
About  my  body  following  it.     The  doctor, 
He  was  a  gentleman,  and  asked  no  questions. 
A  civil  chap :  he'd  stitched  my  scalp  before 
Once,  when  the  heel  of  a  lady's  slipper  .  .  . 

DICK.  So  you 

Are  a  common  poacher,  too ;  although  you  take 
Only  dead  silver  and  gold.     Still  it  must  be 
A  risky  business,  burgling,  when  the  folk  .  .  . 


BORDERLANDS  385 

TRAMP.     Risk!  ay,  there's  risk!     That's  where  the  fun  comes 

in; 

To  steal  into  a  house,  with  people  sleeping 
So  warm  and  snug  and  innocent  overhead ; 
To  hear  them  snoring  as  you  pass  their  doors 
With  all  they're  dreaming  of  stowed  in  your  pockets; 
To  tiptoe  from  the  attic  to  the  basement, 
With  a  chance  that  you  may  find  on  any  landing 
A  door  flung  open,  and  a  man  to  tackle. 
It's  only  empty  houses  I'm  afraid  of. 
I've  more  than  once  looked  up  a  pistol's  snout, 
And  never  turned  a  hair  .  .  .  though  once  I  heard 
A  telephone-bell  ring  in  an  empty  house  — 
And  I  can  hear  the  damned  thing  tinkling  yet  .  .  . 
I'm  all  in  a  cold  sweat  just  thinking  of  it. 
It  tinkled,  tinkled  .  .  .  Risk!     Why  man  alive, 
Life's  all  a  risky  business,  till  you're  dead. 
There's  no  risk  then  .  .  .  unless  ...  I  never  feared 
A  living  man,  sleeping  or  waking,  yet. 
But  ghosts,  well,  ghosts  are  different  somehow.     There's 
A  world  of  difference  between  men  and  ghosts. 
Let's  think  no  more  of  ghosts  —  but  lighted  streets, 
And  crowds,  and  women ;  though  it's  my  belief 
There's  not  a  woman  in  all  this  country-side. 

DICK.     There's  womenfolk,  and  plenty.     And  they  are  kind, 
The  womenfolk,  to  me.     Daft  Dick  is  ever 
A  favourite  with  the  womenfolk.     His  belly 
Would  oft  go  empty,  were  it  not  for  them. 

TRAMP.     You  call  those  women,  gawky,  rawboned  creatures, 
Thin-lipped,  hard-jawed,  cold-eyed!     I  like  fat  women. 
If  you  could  walk  just  now  down  the  Old  Kent  Road, 
And  see  the  plump  young  girls  in  furs  and  feathers, 
With  saucy  black  eyes,  sparkling  in  the  gaslight  ; 
And  looking  at  you,  munching  oranges, 
Or  whispering  to  each  other  with  shrill  giggles 
As  you  go  by,  and  nudging  one  another ; 
Or  standing  with  a  soldier  eating  winkles, 
Grimacing  with  the  vinegar  and  pepper, 
Then  laughing  so  merrily  you  almost  wish 
You  were  a  red-coat,  too!     And  the  fat  old  mothers, 
Too  old  for  feathers  and  follies,  with  their  tight 
Nigh-bursting  bodices,  and  their  double  chins, 
They're  homely,  motherly  and  comfortable, 


386  BORDERLANDS 

And  do  a  man's  eyes  good.     There's  not  a  sight 

In  all  the  world  that's  half  as  rare  to  see 

As  a  fat  old  wife  with  jellied  eels  and  porter. 

Ay,  women  should  be  plump  .  .  .  though  Ellen  Ann 

Was  neither  old  nor  fat,  when  she  and  I 

Were  walking  out  together,  and  she'd  red  hair, 

As  red  as  blazes,  and  a  peaked  white  face. 

But  'twas  her  eyes,  her  eyes  that  always  laughed, 

And  the  merry  way  she  had  with  her  .  .  .  But,  Lord, 

I'm  talking!     Only  mention  petticoats, 

And  I'm  the  boy  to  talk  till  doomsday.     Women! 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  a  petticoat,  this  moment 

I  might  be  drinking  my  own  health  in  the  bar 

Of  The  Seven  Stars  or  The  World  Turned  Upside  Down, 

Instead  of  ...  Well,  Old  Cock,  it's  good  to  have 

Someone  to  talk  to,  after  such  a  day. 

You  cannot  get  much  further  with  a  sheep ; 

And  I  met  none  but  sheep,  and  they  all  scuttled, 

Not  even  stopping  to  pass  the  time  of  day, 

And  the  birds,  well,  they'd  enough  to  say,  and  more, 

When  I  was  running  away  from  myself  in  the  dark, 

With  their  "  Go  back !     Go  back !  " 

DICK.  You'd  scared  the  grouse. 

They  talk  like  Christians.     Often  in  the  dawn  .  .  . 

TRAMP.     Bloodybush  Edge!     But  why  the  Bloodybush? 
I  see  no  bush  .  .  . 

DICK.  Some  fight  in  the  old  days,  likely, 

In  the  days  when  men  were  men  .  .  . 

TRAMP.  I  little  thought, 

When  I  set  out  from  London  on  my  travels, 
That  I  was  making  straight  for  Bloodybush  Edge. 
I  had  my  reasons,  but,  reason  or  none,  it's  certain 
That  I'd  have  turned  up  here,  some  day  or  other: 
For  I  must  travel.     I've  the  itching  foot. 
I  talk  of  London,  when  I'm  well  out  of  it 
By  a  hundred  miles  or  so;  but,  when  I'm  in  it, 
There  always  comes  a  time  when  I  couldn't  stay 
A  moment  longer,  not  for  love  or  money: 
Though  in  the  end  it  always  has  me  back. 
I  cannot  rest.     There's  something  in  my  bones  — 
They'll  need  to  screw  the  lid  down  with  brass  screws 
To  keep  them  in  my  coffin.     When  I'm  dead, 
If  I  don't  walk,  I'll  be  surprised,  I  ...  Lord, 
We're  on  to  ghosts  again !     But  I'm  the  sort 


BORDERLANDS  387 

That's  always  hankering  to  be  elsewhere, 
Wherever  I  am.     Some  men  can  stick  to  a  job 
As  though  they  liked  it.     I'm  not  made  that  way. 
I  couldn't  heave  the  same  pick  two  days  running. 
I've  tried  it:  and  I  know.     I  must  have  change. 
It's  in  my  blood.     And  work,  why  work's  for  fools. 

DICK.     Ay,  fools  indeed :  and  yet  they  seem  content. 
Content !  why  my  old  uncle,  Richard  Dodd, 
He  worked  till  he  was  naught  but  skin  and  bone, 
And  rheumatism :  and  when  the  doctor  told  him : 
"  You  must  give  up.     It's  no  use ;  you're  past  work." 
"  Past  work,"  he  says,  "  past  work,  like  an  old  horse: 
"  They  shoot  old  nags,  when  they  are  past  their  work. 
"  Doctor,"  he  says,  "  I'll  give  you  five  pound  down 
"  To  take  that  gun,  and  shoot  me  like  a  nag." 
The  doctor  only  laughed,  and  answered,  "  Nay. 
"  An  old  nag's  carcase  is  worth  money,  Richard : 
"  But  yours,  why,  who'd  give  anything  for  yours!  " 
They  call  me  daft  —  Daft  Dick.     It  pleases  them. 
But  I  have  never  been  daft  enough  to  work. 
I  never  did  a  hand's  turn  in  my  life: 

And  won't,  while  there  are  trout-streams  left,  and  women. 
And  I  am  a  traveller,  too,  I  cannot  rest. 
/The  wind's  in  my  bones,  I  think,  and  like  the  wind, 
I'm  here,  to-night;  to-morrow,  Lord  knows  where! 

TRAMP.     London,  perhaps,  or  well  upon  the  road  there, 
Since  I'm  on  Bloodybush  Edge. 

DICK.  Nay,  never  London. 

I  cannot  thole  the  towns.     They  stifle  me. 
I  spent  a  black  day  in  Newcastle,  once. 
Never  again!     I  cannot  abide  the  crowds. 
I  must  be  by  myself.     I  must  have  air : 
I  must  have  room  to  breathe,  and  elbow-room, 
Wide  spaces  round  me,  winds  and  running  water. 
I  know  the  singing-note  of  every  burn 
'Twixt  here  and  High  Cup  Nick,  by  Appleby. 
And  birds  and  beasts,  I  must  have  them  about  me  — 
Rabbits  and  hares,  weasels  and  stoats  and  adders, 
Plover  and  grouse,  partridge  and  snipe  and  curlew, 
Red-shank  and  heron.     I  think  that  towns  would  choke  me; 
And  I'd  go  blind  shut  in  by  the  tall  houses, 
With  never  a  far  sight  to  stretch  my  eyes. 
I  must  have  hills,  and  hills  beyond.     And  beds  — 
I  never  held  with  beds  and  stuffiness. 


388  BORDERLANDS 

I'm  seldom  at  my  ease  beneath  a  roof: 

The  rafters  all  seem  crushing  on  my  head, 

A  dead  weight.     Though  I  sleep  in  barns  in  Winter, 

I'm  never  at  home  except  beneath  the  stars. 

I've  seen  enough  of  towns;  and  as  for  the  women, 

Fat  blowsy  sluts  and  slatterns  .  .  . 

TRAMP.  Easy,  Old  Cock ! 

"  What's  one  man's  meat  .  .  ."  as  the  saying  is ;  and  so, 
Each  man  to  his  own  world,  and  his  own  women. 

[They  sit  for  awhile  smoking  in  silence.     Then  DAFT  DICK 
begins  singing  softly  to  himself  again.] 

DICK  [singing].     "  Their  horses  were  the  wrong  way  shod, 
And  Hobbie  has  mounted  his  grey  sae  fine, 
Wat  on  his  old  horse,  Jock  on  his  bay; 
And  on  they  rode  for  the  waters  of  Tyne. 

"  And  when  they  came  to  Chollerton  Ford, 
They  lighted  down  by  the  light  o'  the  moon; 
And  a  tree  they  cut  with  nogs  on  each  side, 
To  climb  up  the  wa'  of  Newcastle  toun." 

TRAMP.     What's  that  you're  singing,  matey  ? 

DICK.  "  Jock  o'  the  Side." 

A  ballad  of  the  days  when  men  were  men, 
And  sheep  were  sheep,  and  not  all  mixter-maxter. 
Thon  were  brave  days,  or  brave  nights,  rather,  thon! 
Brave  nights,  when  Liddisdale  was  Liddisdale, 
And  Tynedale,  Tynedale,  not  all  hand-in-glove, 
And  hanky-panky,  and  naught  but  market-haggling 
Twixt  men  whose  fathers'  swords  were  the  bargainers! 
That  was  a  man's  work,  riding  out,  hot-trod, 
Over  the  hills  to  lift  a  herd  of  cattle, 
And  leave  behind  a  blazing  byre,  or  to  steal 
Your  neighbour's  sheep,  while  he  lay  drunk  and  snoring  — 
A  man's  work,  ever  bringing  a  man's  wages, 
The  fight  to  the  death,  or  life  won  at  the  sword's  point. 
God!  those  were  nights:  the  heather  and  sky  alow 
With  the  light  of  burning  peel-towers,  and  the  wind 
Ringing  with  slogans,  as  the  dalesmen  met, 
Over  the  singing  of  the  swords: 
"  An  Armstrong!     An  Armstrong!  " 
"  A  Milburne!     A  Milburne!  " 


BORDERLANDS  389 

"An  Elliott!     An  Elliott!" 

"  A  Robson !     A  Robson !  " 

"ACharlton!     ACharlton!" 

"  A  Fenwick!     A  Fenwick!  " 

"  Fy,  Tynedale,  to  it !  " 

"  Jethert's  here !     Jethert's  here !  " 

"  Tarset  and  Tarretburn ! 

"  Hardy  and  heatherbred! 

"Yet!     Yet!" 

Man,  did  you  ever  hear  the  story  told 

Of  Barty  Milburne,  Barty  of  the  Comb, 

Down  Tarset  way?  and  how  he  waked  one  morning 

To  find  that  overnight  some  Scottish  reiver 

Had  lifted  the  pick  of  his  flock:  and  how  hot-foot 

He  was  up  the  Blackburn,  summoning  Corbet  Jock : 

And  how  the  two  set  out  to  track  the  thieves 

By  Emblehope,  Berrymoor  Edge  and  Blackman's  Law, 

By  Blakehope  Nick,  and  under  Oh  Me  Edge, 

And  over  Girdle  Fell  to  Chattlehope  Spout, 

And  so  to  Carter  Bar ;  but  lost  the  trail 

Somewhere  about  the  Reidswire:  and  how,  being  loth 

To  go  home  empty-handed,  they  just  lifted 

The  best  sheep  grazing  on  the  Scottish  side, 

As  fair  exchange:  and  turned  their  faces  home. 

By  this,  snow  had  set  in :  and  'twas  sore  work 

Driving  the  wethers  against  it  over  the  fell ; 

When,  finding  they  were  followed  in  their  turn 

By  the  laird  of  Leatham  and  his  son,  they  laughed, 

And  waited  for  the  Scots  by  Chattlehope  Spout 

Above  Catcleugh :  and  in  the  snow  they  fought, 

Till  Corbet  Jock  and  one  of  the  Scots  were  killed, 

And  Barty  himself  sore  wounded  in  the  thigh; 

When  the  other  Scot,  thinking  him  good  as  dead, 

Sprang  on  him,  as  he  stooped,  with  a  whickering  laugh : 

And  Barty,  with  one  clean,  back-handed  blow, 

Struck  off  his  head,  and,  as  they  tell  the  tale, 

"  Garred  it  spang  like  an  onion  along  the  heather."  . 

Then,  picking  up  the  body  of  Corbet  Jock, 

He  slung  it  over  his  shoulder;  and  carried  his  mate, 

With  wounded  thigh  and  driving  the  wethers  before  him, 

Through  blinding  snow,  across  the  boggy  fells 

To  the  Blackburn,  though  his  boot  was  filled  with  blood. 

Or  the  other  tale,  how  one  of  the  Robson  lads 

Stole  a  Scot's  ewes :  and  when  he'd  got  them  home, 


390  BORDERLANDS 

And  had  mixed  them  with  his  own,  found  out,  too  late, 

They'd  got  the  scab:  and  how  he  went  straight  back 

With  a  stout  hempen  rope  to  the  Scot's  house 

And  hanged  him  from  his  own  rooftree  by  the  neck 

Till  he  was  dead,  to  teach  the  rascal  a  lesson, 

Or  so  he  said,  that  when  a  gentleman  called 

For  sheep  the  next  time,  he'd  think  twice  about  it 

Before  he  tried  to  palm  off  scabbit  ewes. 

Poachers  and  housebreakers  and  bargainers! 

Those  men  were  men:  and  lived  and  died  like  men; 

Taking  their  own  road  —  asking  no  man's  leave; 

Doing  and  speaking  outright,  hot  and  clean, 

The  thing  that  burned  in  them,  and  paying  the  price. 

And  those  same  gawky,  rawboned  women  mothered 

Such  sons  as  these;  and  still  do,  nowadays  — 

For  hunting  foxes,  and  for  market-haggling! 

You  fear  no  living  man!     A  glinting  bullseye 

Down  a  dark  lane  would  not  have  set  them  scuttling. 

They  didn't  dread  the  mosshags  in  the  dark. 

And  seemingly  they'd  little  fear  of  ghosts, 

Being  themselves  so  free  in  making  ghosts. 

Ghosts!  why  the  night  is  all  alive  with  ghosts, 

Ghosts  of  dead  raiders,  and  dead  cattle-lifters; 

Poor,  headless  ghosts;  and  ghosts  with  broken  necks  .  .  . 

See  that  chap,  yonder,  with  the  bleeding  thigh, 

On  a  grey  gelding,  making  for  Hurklewinter  — 

A  horse-thief,  sure  .  .  .  And  the  ghostly  stallions  whinney 

As  the  ghostly  reivers  drive  their  flocks  and  herds  .  .  . 

[Listening.']     They  are  quiet  now:  but  I've  often  heard  the  patter 

Of  sheep,  or  the  trot-trot  of  the  frightened  stirks 

Down  this  same  road  .  .  . 

TRAMP.     Stop  man!     You'll  drive  me  crazy ! 
Let's  talk  no  more  of  ghosts!     I  want  to  sleep: 
I'm  dog-tired  .  .  .  but  I'll  never  sleep  to-night. 
What's  that  ...  I  thought  I  heard  .  .  .  I'm  all  a-tremble. 
My  very  blood  stops,  listening,  in  my  veins. 
I'm  all  to  fiddlestrings  .  .  .  Let's  talk  of  London, 
And  lights,  and  crowds,  and  women.     Once  I  met 
A  chap  in  the  bar  of  The  World  Turned  Upside  Down, 
With  three  blue  snakes  tattooed  around  his  wrist : 
A  joker,  he  was ;  and  what  he  didn't  know 
Of  women  the  world  over  you  could  shove 
Between  the  nail  and  the  quick,  and  never  feel  it  — 
He  told  me  that  in  Valparaiso  once 


BORDERLANDS  391 

A  half-breed  wench  that  he  ...  but,  Lord,  what's  that! 

[A  low  distant  sound  of  trotting  drawing  quickly  nearer.] 

I  thought  I  heard  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  nothing  ? 

DICK.  Naught. 

TRAMP.     I'm  all  on  edge:  I  could  have  sworn  I  heard  — 
Where  was  I  ?     Well,  as  I  was  saying  .  .  .  God ! 
Can  you  hear  nothing  now?     Trot-trot!     Trot-trot! 
I  must  be  going  crazy,  or  you're  stone  deaf. 

DICK.     Nay,  I'm  none  deaf. 

TRAMP.  It's  coming  nearer,  nearer  .  .  . 

Trot-trot!  trot-trot!     Man,  tell  me  that  you  hear  it, 
For  God's  sake,  or  I'll  go  mad! 

DICK.  No  two  men  ever 

May  hear  or  see  them,  together,  at  one  time. 

TRAMP.     Hear  what?     See  what?     Speak,  man,  if  you've  a 


tongue 


DICK.     The  ghostly  stirks. 

TRAMP.     The  ghostly  stirks!     Trot-trot! 
Trot-trot!     They're  almost  on  us.     Look  you!  there! 
Along  the  road  there,  black  against  the  sky. 
They're  charging  down  with  eyes  ablaze  .  .  .  O  "Christ  .  .  . 

[He  takes  to  his  heels,  running  lamely  down  the  road  on  the 
Scottish  side,  as  a  herd  of  frightened  young  stirks  gallops 
down  the  road  from  the  English  side.  They  pass  DICK, 
who  watches  them,  placidly  smoking,  until  they  are  by 
when,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  he  gives  a  blood- 
curdling whoop,  which  sends  them  scampering  more 
wildly  after  the  tramp.  Presently  the  cattle-drover, 
panting  and  limping  half-a-mile  behind  his  herd,  comes 
down  the  road.  Seeing  DICK,  he  stops.] 

DROVER.     Have  any  beasts  come  by?     Lord,  what  a  dance 
They've  led  me,  since  we  quitted  Bellingham! 
I've  chased  them  over  half  the  countryside! 

DICK.     Ay:  they  were  making  straight  for  Dinlabyre. 

DROVER.     Then  I  can  rest.     They  cannot  go  far  wrong  now. 
We're  for  Saughtree;  and  I'm  fair  battered,  and  they 
Can't  have  the  spunk  left  in  them  to  stray  far. 
They'll  be  all  right. 

DICK.     Ay !  and  your  brother's  with  them. 

DROVER.     Brother?     I  have  no  brother  . 


392  BORDERLANDS 

DICK.  Well,  he  and  you 

Are  as  like  as  peas  —  a  pair  of  gallows-birds. 
And  he  was  driving  them,  and  walloping  them  ... 

DROVER  [starting  to  run].     Good  God!     Just  wait  till  I  catch 
up  with  him! 

DICK  [calling  after  him].     It  will  take  you  all  your  time  and 

more,  to  catch  him. 

[To  himself.]     Now,  I  can  sleep  in  peace,  without  bed-fellows. 
Two  in  a  bed  is  one  too  many  for  me  — 
And  such  a  clatter-jaw! 


HOOPS 

Scene :  The  big  tent-stable  of  a  travelling  circus.  On  the  ground 
near  the  entrance,  GENTLEMAN  JOHN,  stable-man  and  gen- 
eral odd-job  man,  lies  smoking  beside  MERRY  ANDREW,  the 
clown.  GENTLEMAN  JOHN  is  a  little  hunched  man  with  a 
sensitive  face  and  dreamy  eyes.  MERRY  ANDREW,  who  is 
resting  between  the  afternoon  and  evening  performances,  with 
his  clown's  hat  lying  beside  him,  wears  a  crimson  wig,  and  a 
baggy  suit  of  orange-coloured  cotton,  patterned  with  purple- 
cats.  His  face  is  chalked  dead  white  and  painted  with  a  set 
grin,  so  that  it  is  impossible  to  see  what  manner  of  man  he  is. 
In  the  background  are  camels  and  elephants  feeding,  dimly 
visible  in  the  steamy  dusk  of  the  tent. 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.     And  then  consider  camels:  only  think 
Of  camels  long  enough,  and  you'd  go  mad  — 
With  all  their  humps  and  lumps,  their  knobbly  knees, 
Splay  feet  and  straddle  legs,  their  sagging  necks, 
Flat  flanks,  and  scraggy  tails,  and  monstrous  teeth. 
I've  not  forgotten  the  first  fiend  I  met, 
'Twas  in  a  lane  in  Smyrna,  just  a  ditch 
Between  the  shuttered  houses,  and  so  narrow 
The  brute's  bulk  blocked  the  road ;  the  huge,  green  stack 
Of  dewy  fodder  that  it  slouched  beneath 
Brushing  the  yellow  walls  on  either  hand, 
And  shutting  out  the  strip  of  burning  blue: 
And  I'd  to  face  that  vicious,  bobbing  head 
With  evil  eyes,  slack  lips,  and  nightmare  teeth, 
And  duck  beneath  the  snaky,  squirming  neck, 
Pranked  with  its  silly  string  of  bright  blue  beads, 
That  seemed  to  wriggle  every  way  at  once, 
As  though  it  were  a  hydra.     Allah's  beard ! 
But  I  was  scared  and  nearly  turned  and  ran: 
I  felt  that  muzzle  take  me  by  the  scruff 
And   heard  those  murderous  teeth  crunching  my  spine, 
Before  I  stooped  —  though  I  dodged  safely  under. 
I've  always  been  afraid  of  ugliness. 
I'm  such  a  toad  myself,  I  hate  all  toads; 
393 


394  BORDERLANDS 

And  the  camel  is  the  ugliest  toad  of  all 

To  my  mind:  and  it's  just  my  devil's  luck 

I've  come  to  this  —  to  be  a  camel's  lackey, 

To  fetch  and  carry  for  original  sin, 

For  sure  enough,  the  camel's  old  evil  incarnate. 

Blue  beads  and  amulets  to  ward  off  evil ! 

No  eye's  more  evil  than  a  camel's  eye. 

The  elephant  is  quite  a  comely  brute, 

Compared  with  Satan  camel, —  trunk  and  all, 

His  floppy  ears  and  his  impertinent  tail. 

He's  stolid,  but,  at  least,  a  gentleman. 

It  doesn't  hurt  my  pride  to  valet  him, 

And  bring  his  shaving-water.     He's  a  lord. 

Only  the  bluest  blood  that  has  come  down 

Through  generations  from  the  mastodon 

Could  carry  off  that  tail  with  dignity, 

That  tail  and  trunk.     He  cannot  look  absurd 

For  all  the  monkey  tricks  you  put  him  through, 

Your  paper  hoops  and  popguns.     He  just  makes 

His  masters  look  ridiculous,  when  his  pomp's 

Butchered  to  make  a  bumpkins'  holiday. 

He's  dignity  itself,  and  proper  pride, 

That  stands  serenely  in  a  circus-world 

Of  mountebanks  and  monkeys.     He  has  weight 

Behind  him :  aeons  of  primeval  power 

Have  shaped  that  pillared  bulk ;  and  he  stands  sure, 

Solid,  substantial  on  the  world's  foundations. 

And  he  has  form,  form  that's  too  big  a  thing 

To  be  called  beauty.     Once  long  since,  I  thought 

To  be  a  poet,  and  shape  words,  and  mould 

A  poem  like  an  elephant,  huge,  sublime, 

To  front  oblivion :  and  because  I  failed 

And  all  my  rhymes  were  gawky,  shambling  camels, 

Or  else  obscene,  blue-buttocked  apes,  I'm  doomed 

To  fetch  and  carry  for  the  things  I've  made, 

Till  one  of  them  crunches  my  back-bone  with  his  teeth, 

Or  knocks  my  wind  out  with  a  forthright  kick 

Clean  in  the  midriff;  crumpling  up  in  death 

The  hunched  and  stunted  body  that  was  me, 

John,  the  apostle  of  the  Perfect  Form! 

Jerusalem !     I'm  talking,  like  a  book, 

As  you  would  say :  and  a  bad  book  at  that, 

A  maundering,  kiss-mammy  book  —  The  Hunchback's  End, 

Or  The  Camel-Keeper's  Reward  —  would  be  its  title. 


BORDERLANDS  395 

I  froth  and  bubble  like  a  new-broached  cask. 

No  wonder  you  look  glum  for  all  your  grin. 

What  makes  you  mope  ?     You've  naught  to  growse  about. 

You've  got  no  hump.     Your  body's  brave  and  straight  — 

So  shapely  even  that  you  can  afford 

To  trick  it  in  fantastic  shapelessness, 

Knowing  that  there's  a  clean-limbed  man  beneath 

Preposterous  pantaloons  and  purple  cats. 

I  would  have  been  a  poet,  if  I  could: 

But  better  than  shaping  poems,  'twould  have  been 

To  have  had  a  comely  body  and  clean  limbs 

Obedient  to  my  bidding. 

MERRY  ANDREW.  I  missed  a  hoop 

This  afternoon. 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.     You  missed  a  hoop?     You  mean  .  .  . 

MERRY  ANDREW.     That  I  am  done,  used  up,  scrapped,  on  the 

shelf, 
Out  of  the  running, —  only  that,  no  more. 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.     Well,  I've  been  missing  hoops  my  whole 

life  long; 

Though,  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  perhaps 
There's  little  consolation  to  be  chewed 
From  crumbs  that  I  can  offer. 

MERRY  ANDREW.  I've  not  missed 

A  hoop  since  I  was  six.     I'm  forty-two. 
This  is  the  first  time  that  my  body's  failed  me: 
But  'twill  not  be  the  last.     And  .  .  . 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.  Such  is  life! 

You're  going  to  say.     You  see  I've  got  it  pat, 
Your  jaded  wheeze.     Lord,  what  a  wit  I'd  make 
If  I'd  a  set  grin  painted  on  my  face. 
And  such  is  life,  I'd  say  a  hundred  times, 
And  each  time  set  the  world  aroar  afresh 
At  my  original  humour.     Missed  a  hoop! 
Why,  man  alive,  you've  naught  to  grumble  at. 
I've  boggled  every  hoop  since  I  was  six. 
I'm  fifty-five;  and  I've  run  round  a  ring 
Would  make  this  potty  circus  seem  a  pinhole. 
I  wasn't  born  to  sawdust.     I'd  the  world 
For  circus  .  .  . 

MERRY  ANDREW.     It's  no  time  for  crowing  now. 
I  know  a  gentleman,  and  take  on  trust 
The  silver  spoon  and  all.     My  teeth  were  cut 
Upon  a  horseshoe:  and  I  wasn't  born 


396  BORDERLANDS 

Xo  purple  and  fine  linen  —  but  to  sawdust, 
To  sawdust,  as  you  say  —  brought  up  on  sawdust. 
I've  had  to  make  my  daily  bread  of  sawdust: 
Ay,  and  my  children's  —  children's,  that's  the  rub, 
As  Shakespeare  says  .  .  . 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.         Ah,  there  you  go  again! 
What  a  rare  wit  to  set  the  ring  aroar  — 
As  Shakespeare  says!     Crowing?     A  gentleman? 
Man,  didn't  you  say  you'd  never  missed  a  hoop  ? 
It's  only  gentlemen  who  miss  no  hoops, 
Clean-livers,  easy  lords  of  life  who  take 
Each  obstacle  at  a  leap,  who  never  fail. 
You  are  the  gentleman. 

MERRY  ANDREW.  Now  don't  you  try     . 

Being  funny  at  my  expense ;  or  you'll  soon  find 
I'm  not  quite  done  for  yet  —  not  quite  snuffed  out. 
There's  still  a  spark  of  life.     You  may  have  words: 
But  I've  a  fist  will  be  a  match  for  them. 
Words  slaver  feebly  from  a  broken  jaw. 
I've  always  lived  straight,  as  a  man  must  do 
In  my  profession,  if  he'd  keep  in  fettle: 
But  I'm  no  gentleman,  for  I  fail  to  see 
There's  any  sport  in  baiting  a  poor  man 
Because  he's  losing  grip  at  forty-two, 
And  sees  his  livelihood  slipping  from  his  grasp  —  . 
Ay,  and  his  children's  bread. 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.  Why,  man  alive, 

Who's  baiting  you?     This  winded,  broken  cur, 
That  limps  through  life,  to  bait  a  bull  like  you! 
You  don't  want  pity,  man  ?     The  beaten  bull, 
Even  when  the  dogs  are  tearing  at  his  gullet, 
Turns  no  eye  up  for  pity.     I,  myself, 
Crippled  and  hunched  and  twisted  as  I  am, 
Would  make  a  brave  fend  to  stand  up  to  you 
Until  you  swallowed  your  words,  if  you  should  slobber 
Your  pity  over  me.     A  bull!     Nay,  man, 
You're  nothing  but  a  bear  with  a  sore  head. 
A  bee  has  stung  you  —  you  who've  lived  on  honey. 
Sawdust,  forsooth !     You've  had  the  sweet  of  life : 
You've  munched  the  honeycomb  till  .  .  . 

MERRY  ANDREW.  Ay:  talk's  cheap. 

But  you've  no  children.     You  don't  understand. 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.     I  have  no  children :  I  don't  understand 

MERRY  ANDREW.     It's  children  make  the  difference. 


BORDERLANDS  397 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.  Man  alive  — 

Alive  and  kicking,  though  you're  shamming  dead  — 
You've  hit  the  truth  at  last.     It's  that,  just  that, 
Makes  all  the  difference.     If  you  hadn't  children, 
I'd  find  it  in  my  heart  to  pity  you, 
Granted  you'd  let  me.     I  don't  understand ! 
I've  seen  you  stripped.     I've  seen  your  children  stripped. 
You've  never  seen  me  naked ;  but  you  can  guess 
The  misstitched,  gnarled,  and  crooked  thing  I  am. 
Now,  do  you  understand?     I  may  have  words: 
But  you ;  man,  do  you  never  burn  with  pride 
That  you've  begotten  those  six  limber  bodies, 
Firm  Mesh,  and  supple  sinew,  and  lithe  limb  — 
Six  nimble  lads,  each  like  young  Absalom, 
With  red  blood  running  lively  in  his  veins, 
Bone  of  your  bone,  your  very  flesh  and  blood  ? 
It's  you  don't  understand :  God,  what  I'd  give 
This  moment  to  be  you,  just  as  you  are, 
Preposterous  pantaloons,  and  purple  cats, 
And  painted  leer,  and  crimson  curls,  and  all, 
To  be  you  now,  with  only  one  missed  hoop, 
If  I'd  six  clean-limbed  children  of  my  loins, 
Born  of  the  ecstasy  of  life  within  me, 
To  keep  it  quick  and  valiant  in  the  ring 
When  I  ...  but  I  ...  Man,  man,  you've  missed  a  hoop: 
But  they'll  take  every  hoop  like  blooded  colts: 
And  'twill  be  you  in  them  that  leaps  through  life, 
And  in  their  children,  and  their  children's  children. 
God !  doesn't  it  make  you  hold  your  breath  to  think 
There'll  always  be  an  Andrew  in  the  ring, 
The  very  spit  and  image  of  you  stripped, 
While  life's  old  circus  lasts?     And  I  ...  at  least, 
There  is  no  twisted  thing  of  my  begetting 
To  keep  my  shame  alive:  and  that's  the  most 
That  I've  to  pride  myself  upon.     But,  God, 
I'm  proud,  ay,  proud  as  Lucifer,  of  that. 
Think  what  it  means,  with  all  the  urge  and  sting, 
When  such  a  lust  of  life  runs  in  the  veins. 
You,  with  your  six  sons,  and  your  one  missed  hoop, 
Put  that  thought  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it.     Well, 
And  how  d'you  like  the  flavour?     Something  bitter? 
And  burns  the  tongue  a  trifle?     That's  the  brand 
That  I  must  smoke  while  I've  the  breath  to  puff. 

[Pause.] 


398  BORDERLANDS 

I've  always  worshipped  the  body,  all  my  life  — 

The  body,  quick  with  the  perfect  health  which  is  beauty, 

Lively,  lissom,  alert,  and  taking  its  way 

Through  the  world  with  the  easy  gait  of  the  early  gods. 

The  only  moments  I've  lived  my  life  to  the  full 

And  that  live  again  in  remembrance  unfaded  are  those 

When  I've  seen  life  compact  in  some  perfect  body, 

The  living  God  made  manifest  in  man: 

A  diver  in  the  Mediterranean,  resting, 

With  sleeked  black  hair,  and  glistening  salt-tanned  skin, 

Gripping  the  quivering  gunwale  with  tense  hands, 

His  torso  lifted  out  of  the  peacock  sea, 

Like  Neptune,  carved  in  amber,  come  to  life: 

A  stark  Egyptian  on  the  Nile's  edge  poised 

Like  a  bronze  Osiris  against  the  lush,  rank  green: 

A  fisherman  dancing  reels,  on  New  Year's  Eve, 

In  a  hall  of  shadowy  rafters  and  flickering  lights, 

At  St.  Abbs  on  the  Berwickshire  coast,  to  the  skirl  of  the  pipes, 

The  lift  of  the  wave  in  his  heels,  the  sea  in  his  veins: 

A  Cherokee  Indian,  as  though  he  were  one  with  his  horse, 

His  coppery  shoulders  agleam,  his  feathers  aflame 

With  the  last  of  the  sun,  descending  a  gulch  in  Nebraska : 

A  brawny  Cleveland  puddler,  stripped  to  the  loins, 

On  the  cauldron's  brink,  stirring  the  molten  iron 

In  the  white-hot  glow,  a  man  of  white-hot  metal : 

A  Cornish  ploughboy  driving  an  easy  share 

Through  the  grey,  light  soil  of  a  headland,  against  a  sea 

Of  sapphire,  gay  in  his  new  white  corduroys, 

Blue-eyed,  dark-haired  and  whistling  a  careless  tune: 

Jack  Johnson,  stripped  for  the  ring,  in  his  swarthy  pride 

Of  sleek  and  rippling  muscle  .  .  . 

MERRY  ANDREW.  Jack's  the  boy ! 

Ay,  he's  the  proper  figure  of  a  man : 
But  he'll  grow  fat  and  flabby  and  scant  of  breath. 
He'll  miss  his  hoop  some  day. 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.  But  what  are  words 

To  shape  the  joy  of  form?     The  Greeks  did  best 
To  cut  in  marble  or  to  cast  in  bronze 
Their  ecstasy  of  living.     1  remember 
A  marvellous  Hermes  that  I  saw  in  Athens, 
Fished  from  the  very  bottom  of  the  deep 
Where  he  had  lain,  two  thousand  years  or  more, 
Wrecked  with  a  galley-full  of  Roman  pirates, 
Among  the  white  bones  of  his  plunderers 


BORDERLANDS  399 

Whose  flesh  had  fed  the  fishes  as  they  sank, — 

Serene  in  cold  imperishable  beauty, 

Biding  his  time,  till  he  should  rise  again, 

Exultant  from  the  wave,  for  all  men's  worship, 

The  morning-spring  of  life,  the  youth  of  the  world, 

Shaped  in  sea-coloured  bronze  for  everlasting. 

Ay,  the  Greeks  knew ;  but  men  have  forgotten  now. 

Not  easily  do  we  meet  beauty  walking 

The  world  to-day  in  all  the  body's  pride.  ' 

That's  why  I'm  here  —  a  stable-boy  to  camels  — 

For  in  the  circus-ring  there's  more  delight 

Of  seemly  bodies,  goodly  in  sheer  health, 

Bodies  trained  and  tuned  to  the  perfect  pitch, 

Eager,  blithe,  debonaire,  from  head  to  heel 

Aglow  and  alive  in  every  pulse,  than  elsewhere 

In  this  machine-ridden  land  of  grimy,  glum, 

Round-shouldered,  coughing  mechanics.     Once  I  lived 

In  London,  in  a  slum  called  Paradise, 

Sickened  to  see  the  greasy  pavements  crawling 

With  puny,  flabby  babies,  thick  as  maggots. 

Poor  brats!  I'd  soon  go  mad,  if  I'd  to  live 

In  London,  with  its  stunted  men  and  women 

But  little  better  to  look  on  than  myself. 

Yet,  there's  an  island  where  the  men  keep  fit  — 

St.  Kilda's,  a  stark  fastness  of  high  crag: 

They  must  keep  fit  or  famish ;  their  main  food 

The  Solan  goose;  and  it's  a  chancy  job 

To  climb  down  a  sheer  face  of  slippery  granite 

And  drop  a  noose  over  the  sentinel  bird 

Ere  he  can  squawk  to  rouse  the  sleeping  flock. 

They  must  keep  fit  —  their  bodies  taut  and  trim  — 

To  have  the  nerve :  and  they're  like  tempered  steel, 

Suppled  and  fined.     But  even  they've  grown  slacker 

Through  traffic  with  the  mainland,  in  these  days.  . 

A  hundred  years  ago,  the  custom  held 

That  none  should  take  a  wife  till  he  had  stood, 

His  left  heel  on  the  dizziest  point  of  crag, 

His  right  leg  and  both  arms,  stretched  in  mid  air, 

Above  the  sea:  three  hundred  feet  to  drop 

To  death,  if  he  should  fail  —  a  Spartan  test. 

But  any  man  who  could  have  failed,  would  scarce 

Have  earned  his  livelihood,  or  his  children's  bread 

On  that  bleak  rock. 


400  BORDERLANDS 

MERRY  ANDREW    [drowsily].     Ay,   children  —  that's  it,  chil- 
dren! 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.     St.  Kilda's  children  had  a  chance,  at  least, 
With  none  begotten  idly  of  weakling  fathers. 
A  Spartan  test  for  fatherhood !     Should  they  miss 
Their  hoop,  'twas  death,  and  childless.     You  have  still 
Six  lives  to  take  unending  hoops  for  you, 
And  you  yourself  are  not  done  yet  ... 

MERRY  ANDREW  [more drowsily].     Not  yet: 
And  there's  much  comfort  in  the  thought  of  children. 
They're  bonnie  boys  enough ;  and  should  do  well, 
If  I  can  but  keep  going  a  little  while, 
A  little  longer  till  .  .  . 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.     Six  strapping.sons! 
And  I  have  naught  but  camels. 

[Pause.] 
Yet,  I've  seen 

A  vision  in  this  stable  that  puts  to  shame 
Each  ecstasy  of  mortal  flesh  and  blood 
That's  been  my  eyes'  delight.     I  never  breathed 
A  word  of  it  to  man  or  woman  yet : 
I  couldn't  whisper  it  now  to  you,  if  you  looked 
Like  any  human  thing  this  side  of  death. 
'Twas  on  the  night  I  stumbled  on  the  circus. 
I'd  wandered  all  day,  lost  among  the  fells, 
Over  snow-smothered  hills,  through  blinding  blizzard, 
Whipped  by  a  wind  that  seemed  to  strip  and  skin  me, 
Till  I  was  one  numb  ache  of  sodden  ice. 
Quite  done,  and  drunk  with  cold,  I'd  soon  have  dropped 
Dead  in  a  ditch ;  when  suddenly  a  lantern 
Dazzled  my  eyes.     I  smelt  a  queer  warm  smell ; 
And  felt  a  hot  puff  in  my  face ;  and  blundered 
Out  of  the  flurry  of  snow  and  raking  wind 
Dizzily  into  a  glowing  Arabian  night 
Of  elephants  and  camels  having  supper. 
I  thought  that  I'd  gone  mad,  stark,  staring  mad: 
But  I  was  much  too  sleepy  to  mind  just  then  — 
Dropped  dead  asleep  upon  a  truss  of  hay ; 
And  lay,  a  log,  till  —  well,  I  cannot  tell 
How  long  I  lay  unconscious.     I  but  know 
I  slept,  and  wakened :  and  that  'twas  no  dream. 
I  heard  a  rustle  in  the  hay  beside  me ; 
And  opening  sleepy  eyes,  scarce  marvelling, 
I  saw  her,  standing  naked  in  the  lamplight, 


BORDERLANDS  401 

Beneath  the  huge  tent's  cavernous  canopy, 
Against  the  throng  of  elephants  and  camels 
That  champed  unwondering  in  the  golden  dusk, 
Moon-white  Diana,  mettled  Artemis  — 
Her  body,  quick  and  tense  as  her  own  bow-string  — 
Her  spirit,  an  arrow  barbed  and  strung  for  flight  — 
White  snow-flakes  melting  on  her  night-black  hair, 
And  on  her  glistening  breasts  and  supple  thighs: 
Her  red  lips  parted,  her  keen  eyes  alive 
With  fierce,  far-ranging  hungers  of  the  chase 
Over  the  hills  of  morn  .  .  . 

The  lantern  guttered: 
And  I  was  left  alone  in  the  outer  darkness 
Among  the  champing  elephants  and  camels. 
And  I'll  be  a  camel-keeper  to  the  end: 
Though  never  again  my  eyes  .  .  . 

[Pause.] 

So,  you  can  sleep, 

You  merry  Andrew,  for  all  you  missed  your  hoop. 
It's  just  as  well,  perhaps.     Now  I  can  hold 
My  secret  to  the  end.     Ah,  here  they  come ! 

[Six  lads,  between  the  ages  of  three  and  twelve,  clad  in  pink 
tights  covered  with  silver  spangles,  tumble  into  the  tent.} 

THE  ELDEST  BOY.     Daddy,  the  bell's  rung,  and  .  .  . 

GENTLEMAN  JOHN.  He's  snoozing  sound. 

[To  the  youngest  boy.]     You  just  creep  quietly,  and  take  tight 

hold 

Of  the  crimson  curls,  and  tug,  and  you  will  hear 
The  purple  pussies  all  caterwaul  at  once. 

1914. 


BATTLE 

(1914-1915) 


BATTLE 


BEFORE  ACTION 

I  sit  beside  the  brazier's  glow, 
And,  drowsing  in  the  heat, 
I  dream  of  daffodils  that  blow 
And  lambs  that  frisk  and  bleat  — 

Black  lambs  that  frolic  in  the  snow 
Among  the  daffodils, 
In  a  far  orchard  that  I  know 
Beneath  the  Malvern  hills. 

Next  year  the  daffodils  will  blow, 
And  lambs  will  frisk  and  bleat; 
But  I'll  not  feel  the  brazier's  glow, 
Nor  any  cold  or  heat. 


405 


BREAKFAST 

We  ate  our  breakfast  lying  on  our  backs, 

Because  the  shells  were  screeching  overhead. 

I  bet  a  rasher  to  a  loaf  of  bread 

That  Hull  United  would  beat  Halifax 

When  Jimmy  Stainthorpe  played  full-back  instead 

Of  Billy  Bradford.     Ginger  raised  his  head 

And  cursed,  and  took  the  bet ;  and  dropt  back  dead. 

We  ate  our  breakfast  lying  on  our  backs, 

Because  the  shells  were  screeching  overhead. 


406 


THE  BAYONET 

This  bloody  steel 
Has  killed  a  man. 
I  heard  him  squeal 
As  on  I  ran. 

He  watched  me  come 
With  wagging  head. 
I  pressed  it  home, 
And  he  was  dead. 

Though  clean  and  clear 
I've  wiped  the  steel, 
I  still  can  hear 
That  dying  squeal. 


407 


THE  QUESTION 

I  wonder  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not. 
Gey  bad  she  was  the  night  I  left,  and  sick. 
Dick  reckoned  she  would  mend.     He  knows  a  lot 
At  least  he  fancies  so  himself,  does  Dick. 

Dick  knows  a  lot.     But  maybe  I  did  wrong 
To  leave  the  cow  to  him,  and  come  away. 
Over  and  over  like  a  silly  song 
These  words  keep  bumming  in  my  head  all  day. 

And  all  I  think  of,  as  I  face  the  foe 
And  take  my  lucky  chance  of  being  shot, 
Is  this  —  that  if  I'm  hit,  I'll  never  know 
Till  Doomsday  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not. 


408 


THE  RETURN 

He  went,  and  he  was  gay  to  go ; 
And  I  smiled  on  him  as  he  went. 
My  son  — 'twas  well  he  couldn't  know 
My  darkest  dread,  nor  what  it  meant  — 

Just  what  it  meant  to  smile  and  smile 
And  let  my  son  go  cheerily  — 
My  son  .  .  .  and  wondering  all  the  while 
What  stranger  would  come  back  to  me. 


409 


SALVAGE 

So  suddenly  her  life 

Had  crashed  about  that  grey  old  country  wife, 

Naked  she  stood,  and  gazed 

Bewildered,  while  her  home  about  her  blazed, 

New-widowed,  and  bereft 

Of  her  five  sons,  she  clung  to  what  was  left, 

Still  hugging  all  she'd  got  — 

A  toy  gun  and  a  copper  coffee-pot. 


410 


DEAF 

This  day  last  year  I  heard  the  curlew  calling 
By  Hallypike 

And  the  clear  tinkle  of  hill-waters  falling 
Down  slack  and  syke. 

But  now  I  cannot  hear  the  shrapnel's  screaming, 
The  screech  of  shells : 
And  if  again  I  see  the  blue  lough  gleaming 
Among  the  fells 

Unheard  of  me  will  be  the  curlew's  calling 
By  Hallypike 

And  the  clear  tinkle  of  hill-waters  falling 
Down  slack  and  syke. 


411 


MAD 

Neck-deep  in  mud, 
He  mowed  and  raved  — 
He  who  had  braved 
The  field  of  blood  — 

And  as  a  lad 
Just  out  of  school 
Yelled:  "April  fool!" 
And  laughed  like  mad. 


412 


RAINING 

The  night  I  left  my  father  said: 
"  You'll  go  and  do  some  stupid  thing. 
You've  no  more  sense  in  that  fat  head 
Than  Silly  Billy  Witterling. 

"  Not  sense  to  come  in  when  it  rains  — 
Not  sense  enough  for  that,  you've  got. 
You'll  get  a  bullet  through  your  brains, 
Before  you  know,  as  like  as  not." 

And  now  I'm  lying  in  the  trench 
And  shells  and  bullets  through  the  night 
Are  raining  in  a  steady  drench, 
I'm  thinking  the  old  man  was  right. 


41.3 


SPORT 

And  such  a  morning  for  cubbing  — 
The  dew  so  thick  on  the  grass ! 
Two  hares  are  lolloping  just  out  of  range 
Scattering  the  dew  as  they  pass. 

A  covey  of  partridge  whirrs  overhead 
Scatheless,  and  gets  clean  away; 
For  it's  other  and  crueller,  craftier  game 
We're  out  for  and  after  to-day! 


414 


THE  FEAR 

I  do  not  fear  to  die 
'Neath  the  open  sky, 
To  meet  death  in  the  fight 
Face  to  face,  upright. 

But  when  at  last  we  creep 
Into  a  hole  to  sleep, 
I  tremble,  cold  with  dread, 
Lest  I  wake  up  dead. 


4iS 


IN  THE  AMBULANCE 

"  Two  rows  of  cabbages, 
Two  of  curly-greens, 
Two  rows  of  early  peas, 
Two  of  kidney-beans." 

That's  what  he  is  muttering, 
Making  such  a  song, 
Keeping  other  chaps  awake, 
The  whole  night  long. 

Both  his  legs  are  shot  away, 
And  his  head  is  light; 
So  he  keeps  on  muttering 
All  the  blessed  night. 

"  Two  rows  of  cabbages, 
Two  of  curly-greens, 
Two  rows  of  early  peas, 
Two  of  kidney-beans." 


416 


HILL-BORN 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  it's  really  true 

I  ever  knew 

Another  life 

Than  this  unending  strife 

With  unseen  enemies  in  lowland  mud, 

And  wonder  if  my  blood 

Thrilled  ever  to  the  tune 

Of  clean  winds  blowing  through  an  April  noon 

Mile  after  sunny  mile 

On  the  green  ridges  of  the  Windy  Gile. 


417 


THE  FATHER 

That  was  his  sort. 
It  didn't  matter 
What  we  were  at 
But  he  must  chatter 
Of  this  and  that 
His  little  son 
Had  said  and  done: 
Till,  as  he  told 
The  fiftieth  time 
Without  a  change 
How  three-year-old 
Prattled  a  rhyme, 
They  got  the  range 
And  cut  him  short. 


418 


THE  REEK 

To-night  they're  sitting  by  the  peat 
Talking  of  me,  I  know  — 
Grandfather  in  the  ingle-seat, 
Mother  and  Meg  and  Joe. 

I  feel  a  sudden  puff  of  heat 
That  sets  my  ears  aglow, 
And  smell  the  reek  of  burning  peat 
Across  the  Belgian  snow. 


419 


NIGHTMARE 

They  gave  him  a  shilling, 
They  gave  him  a  gun, 
And  so  he's  gone  killing 
The  Germans,  my  son. 

I  dream  of  that  shilling  — 
I  dream  of  that  gun  — 
And  it's  they  that  are  killing 
The  boy  who's  my  son. 


420 


COMRADES 

As  I  was  marching  in  Flanders 
A  ghost  kept  step  with  me  — 
Kept  step  with  me  and  chuckled 
And  muttered  ceaselessly : 

"  Once  I  too  marched  in  Flanders, 
The  very  spit  of  you, 
And  just  a  hundred  years  since, 
To  fall  at  Waterloo. 

"  They  buried  me  in  Flanders 
Upon  the  field  of  blood, 
And  long  I've  lain  forgotten 
Deep  in  the  Flemish  mud. 

"  But  now  you  march  in  Flanders, 
The  very  spit  of  me; 
To  the  ending  of  the  day's  march 
I'll  bear  you  company." 


421 


THE  LARK 

A  lull  in  the  racket  and  brattle, 
And  a  lark  soars  into  the  light  — 
And  its  song  seems  the  voice  of  the  light 
Quelling  the  voices  of  night 
And  the  shattering  fury  of  battle. 

But  again  the  fury  of  battle 
Breaks  out,  and  he  drops  from  the  height 
Dead  as  a  stone  from  the  height  — 
Drops  dead,  and  the  voice  of  the  light 
Is  drowned  in  the  shattering  brattle. 


422 


THE  VOW 

Does  he  ever  remember, 
The  lad  that  I  knew, 
That  night  in  September 
He  vowed  to  be  true  — 

Does  he  hear  my  heart  crying 
And  fighting  for  breath 
In  the  land  where  he's  lying 
As  quiet  as  death? 


423 


MANGEL-WURZELS 

Last  year  I  was  hoeing, 

Hoeing  mangel-wurzels, 

Hoeing  mangel-wurzels  all  day  in  the  sun, 

Hoeing  for  the  squire 

Down  in  Gloucestershire 

Willy-nilly  till  the  sweaty  job  was  done. 

Now  I'm  in  the  'wurzels, 

In  the  mangel-wurzels, 

All  day  in  the  'wurzels  'neath  the  Belgian  sun. 

But  among  this  little  lot 

It's  a  different  job  I've  got  — 

For  you  don't  hoe  mangel-wurzels  with  a  gun. 


424 


HIS  FATHER 

I  quite  forgot  to  put  the  spigot  in. 
It's  just  come  over  me.  .  .  .  And  it  is  queer 
To  think  he'll  not  care  if  we  lose  or  win 
And  yet  be  jumping-mad  about  that  beer. 

I  left  it  running  full.     He  must  have  said 
A  thing  or  two.     I'd  give  my  stripes  to  hear 
What  he  will  say  if  I'm  reported  dead 
Before  he  gets  me  told  about  that  beer ! 


425 


HIT 

Out  of  the  sparkling  sea 

I  drew  my  tingling  body  clear,  and  lay 

On  a  low  ledge  the  livelong  summer  day, 

Basking,  and  watching  lazily 

White  sails  in  Falmouth  Bay. 

My  body  seemed  to  burn 

Salt  in  the  sun  that  drenched  it  through  and  through 

Till  every  particle  glowed  clean  and  new 

And  slowly  seemed  to  turn 

To  lucent  amber  in  a  world  of  blue 

I  felt  a  sudden  wrench  — 

A  trickle  of  warm  blood  — 

And  found  that  I  was  sprawling  in  the  mud 

Among  the  dead  men  in  the  trench. 


426 


BACK 

They  ask  me  where  I've  been, 
And  what  I've  done  and  seen. 
But  what  can  I  reply 
Who  know  it  wasn't  I, 
But  someone  just  like  me, 
Who  went  across  the  sea 
And  with  my  head  and  hands 
Killed  men  in  foreign  lands.  .  , 
Though  I  must  bear  the  blame 
Because  he  bore  my  name. 


427 


HIS  MATE 

"  Hi-diddle-diddle 

The  cat  and  the  fiddle  "... 

I  raised  my  head, 

And  saw  him  seated  on  a  heap  of  dead, 

Yelling  the  nursery-tune, 

Grimacing  at  the  moon.  .  .  . 

"  And  the  cow  jumped  over  the  moon. 
The  little  dog  laughed  to  see  such  sport 
And  the  dish  ran  away  with  the  spoon." 

And,  as  he  stopt  to  snigger, 

I  struggled  to  my  knees  and  pulled  the  trigger. 


428 


THE  DANCERS 

All  day  beneath  the  hurtling  shells 
Before  my  burning  eyes 
Hover  the  dainty  demoiselles  — 
The  peacock  dragon-flies. 

Unceasingly  they  dart  and  glance 
Above  the  stagnant  stream  — 
And  I  am  fighting  here  in  France 
As  in  a  senseless  dream  — 

A  dream  of  shattering  black  shells 
That  hurtle  overhead, 
And  dainty  dancing  demoiselles 
Above  the  dreamless  dead. 


429 


THE  JOKE 

He'd  even  have  his  joke 

While  we  were  sitting  tight, 

And  so  he  needs  must  poke 

His  silly  head  in  sight 

To  whisper  some  new  jest 

Chortling,  but  as  he  spoke 

A  rifle  cracked.  .  .  . 

And  now  God  knows  when  I  shall  hear  the  rest ! 


430 


CHERRIES 

A  handful  of  cherries 
She  gave  me  in  passing, 
The  wizened  old  woman, 
And  wished  me  good  luck  — 

And  again  I  was  dreaming, 
A  boy  in  the  sunshine, 
And  life  but  an  orchard 
Of  cherries  to  pluck. 


43i 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

She  must  go  back,  she  said, 

Because  she'd  not  had  time  to  make  the  bed. 

We'd  hurried  her  away 

So  roughly  .  .  .  and,  for  all  that  we  could  say, 

She  broke  from  us,  and  passed 

Into  the  night,  shells  falling  thick  and  fast. 


432 


VICTORY 

I  watched  it  oozing  quietly 
Out  of  the  gaping  gash. 
The  lads  thrust  on  to  victory 
With  lunge  and  curse  and  crash. 

Half-dazed,  that  uproar  seemed  to  me 
Like  some  old  battle-sound 
Heard  long  ago,  as  quietly 
His  blood  soaked  in  the  ground. 

The  lads  thrust  on  to  victory 
With  lunge  and  crash  and  shout. 
I  lay  and  watched,  as  quietly 
His  life  was  running  out. 


433 


THE  MESSAGES 

"  I  cannot  quite  remember.  .  .  .  There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench  —  and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  .  .  ." 

Back  from  the  trenches,  more  dead  than  alive, 
Stone-deaf  and  dazed,  and  with  a  broken  knee, 
He  hobbled  slowly,  muttering  vacantly: 

"  I  cannot  quite  remember.  .  .  .  There  were  five 
.Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench,  and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  .  .  . 

"Their  friends  are  waiting,  wondering  how  they  thrive 

Waiting  a  word  in  silence  patiently.  .  .  . 

But  what  they  said,  or  who  their  friends  may  be 

"  I  cannot  quite  remember.  .  .  .  There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench, —  and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  ..." 


434 


THE  QUIET 

I  could  not  understand  the  sudden  quiet  — 
The  sudden  darkness  —  in  the  crash  of  fight, 
The  din  and  glare  of  day  quenched  in  a  twinkling 
In  utter  starless  night. 

I  lay  an  age  and  idly  gazed  at  nothing, 
Half-puzzled  that  I  could  not  lift  my  head ; 
And  then  I  knew  somehow  that  I  was  lying 
Among  the  other  dead. 


435 


FRIENDS 

(1915-1916) 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 
RUPERT  BROOKE 


He's  gone. 

I  do  not  understand. 

I  only  know 

That  as  he  turned  to  go 

And  waved  his  hand 

In  his  young  eyes  a  sudden  glory  shone: 

And  I  was  dazzled  by  a  sunset  glow, 

And  he  was  gone. 


23d  April,  1915. 


FRIENDS 

RUPERT  BROOKE 

I 

Your  face  was  lifted  to  the  golden  sky 
Ablaze  beyond  the  black  roofs  of  the  square 
As  flame  on  flame  leapt,  flourishing  in  air 
Its  tumult  of  red  stars  exultantly 
To  the  cold  constellations  dim  and  high : 
And  as  we  neared  the  roaring  ruddy  flare 
Kindled  to  gold  your  throat  and  brow  and  hair 
Until  you  burned,  a  flame  of  ecstasy. 

The  golden  head  goes  down  into  the  night 

Quenched  in  cold  gloom  —  and  yet  again  you  stand 

Beside  me  now  with  lifted  face  alight, 

As,  flame  to  flame,  and  fire  to  fire  you  burn.  .  .  . 

Then,  recollecting,  laughingly  you  turn, 

And  look  into  my  eyes  and  take  my  hand. 

II 

Once  in  my  garret  —  you  being  far  away 
Tramping  the  hills  and  breathing  upland  air, 
Or  so  I  fancied  —  brooding  in  my  chair, 
I  watched  the  London  sunshine  feeble  and  grey 
Dapple  my  desk,  too  tired  to  labour  more, 
When,  looking  up,  I  saw  you  standing  there 
Although  I'd  caught  no  footstep  on  the  stair, 
Like  sudden  April  at  my  open  door. 

Though  now  beyond  earth's  farthest  hills  you  fare, 
Song-crowned,  immortal,  sometimes  it  seems  to  me 
That,  if  I  listen  very  quietly. 
Perhaps  I'll  hear  a  light  foot  on  the  stair 


442  FRIENDS 

And  see  you,  standing  with  your  angel  air, 
Fresh  from  the  uplands  of  eternity. 

Ill 

Your  eyes  rejoiced  in  colour's  ecstasy, 
Fulfilling  even  their  uttermost  desire, 
When,  over  a  great  sunlit  field  afire 
With  windy  poppies  streaming  like  a  sea 
Of  scarlet  flame  that  flaunted  riotously 
Among  green  orchards  of  that  western  shire, 
You  gazed  as  though  your  heart  could  never  tir 
Of  life's  red  flood  in  summer  revelry. 

And  as  I  watched  you,  little  thought  had  I 
How  soon  beneath  the  dim  low-drifting  sky 
Your  soul  should  wander  down  the  darkling  way, 
With  eyes  that  peer  a  little  wistfully, 
Half-glad,  half-sad,  remembering,  as  they  see 
Lethean  poppies,  shrivelling  ashen  grey. 

IV 

October  chestnuts  showered  their  perishing  gold 
Over  us  as  beside  the  stream  we  lay 
In  the  Old  Vicarage  garden  that  blue  day, 
Talking  of  verse  and  all  the  manifold 
Delights  a  little  net  of  words  may  hold, 
While  in  the  sunlight  water-voles  at  play 
Dived  under  a  trailing  crimson  bramble-spray, 
And  walnuts  thudded  ripe  on  soft  black  mould. 

Your  soul  goes  down  unto  a  darker  stream 
Alone,  O  friend,  yet  even  in  death's  deep  night 
Your  eyes  may  grow  accustomed  to  the  dark, 
And  Styx  for  you  may  have  the  ripple  and  gleam 
Of  your  familiar  river,  and  Charon's  bark 
Tarry  by  that  old  garden  of  your  delight. 


WILLIAM  DENIS  BROWNE 

(Gallipoli,  1 1  th  June,  1915) 

Night  after  night  we  two  together  heard 
The  music  of  the  Ring, 
The  inmost  silence  of  our  being  stirred 
By  voice  and  string. 

Though  I  to-night  in  silence  sit,  and  you, 
In  stranger  silence,  sleep, 
Eternal  music  stirs  and  thrills  anew 
The  severing  deep. 


443 


TENANTS 

Suddenly,  out  of  dark  and  leafy  ways, 
We  came  upon  the  little  house  asleep 
In  cold  blind  stillness,  shadowless  and  deep, 
In  the  white  magic  of  the  full  moon-blaze : 
Strangers  without  the  gate,  we  stood  agaze, 
Fearful  to  break  that  quiet,  and  to  creep 
Into  the  house  that  had  been  ours  to  keep 
Through  a  long  year  of  happy  nights  and  days. 

So  unfamiliar  in  the  white  moon-gleam, 
So  old  and  ghostly  like  a  house  of  dream 
It  seemed,  that  over  us  there  stole  the  dread 
That  even  as  we  watched  it,  side  by  side, 
The  ghosts  of  lovers,  who  had  lived  and  died 
Within  its  walls,  were  sleeping  in  our  bed. 


444 


SEA-CHANGE 

Wind-flicked  and  ruddy  her  young  body  glowed 
In  sunny  shallows,  splashing  them  to  spray: 
But  when  on  rippled  silver  sand  she  lay, 
And  over  her  the  little  green  waves  flowed, 
Coldly  translucent  and  moon-coloured  showed 
Her  frail  young  beauty,  as  if  rapt  away 
From  all  the  light  and  laughter  of  the  day 
To  some  twilit,  forlorn  sea-god's  abode. 

Again  into  the  sun  with  happy  cry 

She  leapt  alive  and  sparkling  from  the  sea, 

Sprinkling  white  spray  against  the  hot  blue  sky, 

A  laughing  girl  .  .  .  and  yet,  I  see  her  lie 

Under  a  deeper  tide  eternally 

In  cold  moon-coloured  immortality. 


445 


GOLD 

All  day  the  mallet  thudded,  far  below 
My  garret,  in  an  old  ramshackle  shed 
Where  ceaselessly,  with  stiffly  nodding  head 
And  rigid  motions  ever  to  and  fro 
A  figure  like  a  puppet  in  a  show 
Before  the  window  moved  till  day  was  dead, 
Beating  out  gold  to  earn  his  daily  bread, 
Beating  out  thin  fine  gold-leaf  blow  on  blow. 

And  I  within  my  garret  all  day  long 
To  that  unceasing  thudding  tuned  my  song, 
Beating  out  golden  words  in  tune  and  time 
To  that  dull  thudding,  rhyme  on  golden  rhyme. 
But  in  my  dreams  all  night  in  that  dark  shed 
With  aching  arms  I  beat  fine  gold  for  bread 


446 


THE  OLD  BED 

Streaming  beneath  the  eaves,  the  sunset  light 
Turns  the  white  walls  and  ceiling  to  pure  gold, 
And  gold,  the  quilt  and  pillows  on  the  old 
Fourposter  bed  —  all  day  a  cold  drift-white  — 
As  if,  in  a  gold  casket  glistering  bright, 
The  gleam  of  winter  sunshine  sought  to  hold 
The  sleeping  child  safe  from  the  dark  and  cold 
And  creeping  shadows  of  the  coming  night. 

Slowly  it  fades:  and  stealing  through  the  gloom 
Home-coming  shadows  throng  the  quiet  room, 
Grey  ghosts  that  move  unrustling,  without  breath, 
To  their  familiar  rest,  and  closer  creep 
About  the  little  dreamless  child  asleep 
Upon  the  bed  of  bridal,  birth  and  death. 


447 


TREES 

(To  Lascelles  Abercrombie) 

The  flames  half  lit  the  cavernous  mystery 
Of  the  over-arching  elm  that  loomed  profound 
And  mountainous  above  us,  from  the  ground 
Soaring  to  midnight  stars  majestically, 
As,  under  the  shelter  of  that  ageless  tree 
In  a  rapt  dreaming  circle  we  lay  around 
The  crackling  faggots,  listening  to  the  sound 
Of  old  words  moving  in  new  harmony. 

And  as  you  read,  before  our  wondering  eyes 
Arose  another  tree  of  mighty  girth  — 
Crested  with  stars  though  rooted  in  the  earth, 
Its  heavy-foliaged  branches,  lit  with  gleams 
Of  ruddy  firelight  and  the  light  of  dreams  — 
Soaring  immortal  to  eternal  skies. 


448 


OBLIVION 

Near  the  great  pyramid,  unshadowed,  white, 
With  apex  piercing  the  white  noon-day  blaze, 
Swathed  in  white  robes  beneath  the  blinding  rays 
Lie  sleeping  Bedouins  drenched  in  white-hot  light. 
About  them,  searing  to  the  tingling  sight, 
Swims  the  white  dazzle  of  the  desert  ways 
Where  the  sense  shudders,  witless  and  adaze, 
In  a  white  void  with  neither  depth  nor  height. 

Within  the  black  core  of  the  pyramid 
Beneath  the  weight  of  sunless  centuries 
Lapt  in  dead  night  King  Cheops  lies  asleep: 
Yet  in  the  darkness  of  his  chamber  hid 
He  knows  no  black  oblivion  more  deep 
Than  that  blind  white  oblivion  of  noon  skies. 


44Q 


COLOUR 

A  blue-black  Nubian  plucking  oranges 
At  Jaffa  by  a  sea  of  malachite 
In  red  tarboosh,  green  sash,  and  flowing  white 
Burnous  —  among  the  shadowy  memories 
That  haunt  me  yet  by  these  bleak  N  orthern  seas 
He  lives  for  ever  in  my  eyes'  delight, 
Bizarre,  superb  in  young  immortal  might  — 
A  god  of  old  barbaric  mysteries. 

Maybe  he  lived  a  life  of  lies  and  lust: 

Maybe  his  bones  are  now  but  scattered  dust: 

Yet,  for  a  moment  he  was  life  supreme 

Exultant  and  unchallenged:  and  my  rhyme 

Would  set  him  safely  out  of  reach  of  time 

In  that  old  heaven  where  things  are  what  they  seem. 


450 


RETREAT 

Broken,  bewildered  by  the  long  retreat 
Across  the  stifling  leagues  of  Southern  plain, 
Across  the  scorching  leagues  of  trampled  grain, 
Half-stunned,  half-blinded  by  the  trudge  of  feet 
And  dusty  smother  of  the  August  heat, 
He  dreamt  of  flowers  in  an  English  lane, 
Of  hedgerow  flowers  glistening  after  rain  — 
All-heal  and  willowherb  and  meadowsweet. 

All-heal  and  willowherb  and  meadowsweet  — 
The  innocent  names  kept  up  a  cool  refrain, 
All-heal  and  willowherb  and  meadowsweet, 
Chiming  and  tinkling  through  his  aching  brain 
Until  he  babbled  as  a  child  again  — 
"  All-heal  and  willowherb  and  meadowsweet." 


NIGHT 

Vesuvius,  purple  under  purple  skies 
Beyond  the  purple,  still,  unrippling  sea; 
Sheer  amber  lightning,  streaming  ceaselessly 
From  heaven  to  earth,  dazzling  bewildered  eyes 
With  all  the  terror  of  beauty:  thus  day  dies 
That  dawned  in  blue,  unclouded  innocency; 
And  thus  we  look  our  last  on  Italy 
That  soon,  obscured  by  night,  behind  us  lies. 

And  night  descends  on  us,  tempestuous  night, 
Night,  torn  with  terror,  as  we  sail  the  deep  ; 
And  like  a  cataract  down  a  mountain-steep 
Pours,  loud  with  thunder,  that  red  perilous  fire. 
Yet  shall  the  dawn,  O  land  of  our  desire, 
Show  thee  again,  re-orient,  crowned  with  light! 


452 


THE  ORPHANS 

At  five  o'clock  one  April  morn 
I  met  them  making  tracks, 
Young  Benjamin  and  Abel  Horn, 
With  bundles  on  their  backs. 

Young  Benjamin  is  seventy-five, 
Young  Abel,  seventy-seven  — 
The  oldest  innocents  alive 
Beneath  that  April  heaven. 

I  asked  them  why  they  trudged  about 
With  crabby  looks  and  sour  — 
"  And  does  your  mother  know  you're  out 
At  this  unearthly  hour?  " 

They  stopped :  and  scowling  up  at  me 
Each  shook  a  grizzled  head, 
And  swore;  and  then  spat  bitterly, 
As  with  one  voice  they  said : 

"  Homeless,  about  the  country-side 
We  never  thought  to  roam; 
But  mother,  she  has  gone  and  died, 
And  broken  up  the  home." 


452 


Mooning  in  the  moonlight 
I  met  a  mottled  pig, 
Grubbing  mast  and  acorn, 
On  the  Gallows  Rigg. 

"  Tell,  oh  tell  me  truly, 
While  I  wander  blind, 
Do  your  peepy  pig's  eyes 
Really  see  the  wind  — 

"  See  the  great  wind  flowing 
Darkling  and  agleam 
Through  the  fields  of  heaven 
In  a  crystal  stream? 

"  Do  the  singing  eddies 
Break  on  bough  and  twig 
Into  silvery  sparkles 
For  your  eyes,  O  pig? 

"  Do  celestial  surges 
Sweep  across  the  night 
Like  a  sea  of  glory 
In  your  blessed  sight  ? 

"Tell,  oh  tell  me  truly!" 
But  the  mottled  pig 
Grubbing  mast  and  acorns, 
Did  not  care  a  fig. 


454 


THE  PESSIMIST 

His  body  bulged  with  puppies  —  little  eyes 
Peeped  out  of  every  pocket,  black  and  bright; 
And  with  as  innocent,  round-eyed  surprise 
He  watched  the  glittering  traffic  of  the  night. 

"  What  this  world's  coming  to  I  cannot  tell," 
He  muttered,  as  I  passed  him,  with  a  whine  — 
"  Things  surely  must  be  making  slap  for  hell, 
When  no  one  wants  these  little  dogs  of  mine." 


455 


THE  SWEET-TOOTH 

Taking  a  turn  after  tea 
Through  orchards  of  Mirabelea 
Where  clusters  of  yellow  and  red 
Dangled  and  glowed  overhead, 
Who  should  I  see 
But  old  Timothy, 

Hale  and  hearty  as  hearty  could  be  — 
Timothy  under  a  crab-apple  tree. 

His  blue  eyes  twinkling  at  me, 
Munching  and  crunching  with  glee 
And  wagging  his  wicked  old  head, 
"  I've  still  got  a  sweet-tooth,"  he  said, 
"  A  hundred  and  three 
Come  January, 

I've  one  tooth  left  in  my  head,"  said  he  - 
Timothy  under  the  crab-apple  tree. 


456 


GIRL'S  SONG 

I  saw  three  black  pigs  riding 
In  a  blue  and  yellow  cart  — 
Three  black  pigs  riding  to  the  fair 
Behind  the  old  grey  dappled  mare  — 
But  it  wasn't  black  pigs  riding 
In  a  gay  and  gaudy  cart 
That  sent  me  into  hiding 
With  a  flutter  in  my  heart. 

I  heard  the  cart  returning, 
The  jolting  jingling  cart  — 
Returning  empty  from  the  fair 
Behind  the  old  jog-trotting  mare  — 
But  it  wasn't  the  returning 
Of  a  clattering,  empty  cart 
That  sent  the  hot  blood  burning 
And  throbbing  through  my  heart. 


457 


THE  ICE-CART 

Perched  on  my  city  office-stool, 

I  watched  with  envy,  while  a  cool 

And  lucky  carter  handled  ice.  .  .  . 

And  I  was  wandering  in  a  trice, 

Far  from  the  grey  and  grimy  heat 

Of  that  intolerable  street, 

O'er  sapphire  berg  and  emerald  floe, 

Beneath  the  still,  cold  ruby  glow 

Of  everlasting  Polar  night, 

Bewildered  by  the  queer  half-light, 

Until  I  stumbled,  unawares, 

Upon  a  creek  where  big  white  bears 

Plunged  headlong  down  with  flourished  heels 

And  floundered  after  shining  seals 

Through  shivering  seas  of  blinding  blue. 

And  as  I  watched  them,  ere  I  knew, 

I'd  stripped,  and  I  was  swimming,  too, 

Among  the  seal-pack,  young  and  hale, 

And  thrusting  on  with  threshing  tail, 

With  twist  and  twirl  and  sudden  leap 

Through  crackling  ice  and  salty  deep  — 

Diving  and  doubling  with  my  kind, 

Until,  at  last,  we  left  behind 

Those  big,  white,  blundering  bulks  of  death, 

And  lay,  at  length,  with  panting  breath 

Upon  a  far  untravelled  floe, 

Beneath  a  gentle  drift  of  snow  — 

Snow  drifting  gently,  fine  and  white, 

Out  of  the  endless  Polar  night, 

Falling  and  falling  evermore 

Upon  that  far  untravelled  shore, 

Till  I  was  buried  fathoms  deep 

Beneath  that  cold  white  drifting  sleep  — 

Sleep  drifting  deep, 

Deep  drifting  sleep.  .  .  . 

The  carter  cracked  a  sudden  whip: 
I  clutched  my  stool  with  startled  grip, 
Awakening  to  the  grimy  heat 
Of  that  intolerable  street. 
458 


TO  E.  M. 

(In  memory  of  R.  B.) 

The  night  we  saw  the  stacks  of  timber  blaze 
To  terrible  golden  fury,  young  and  strong 
He  watched  between  us  with  dream-dazzled  gaze 
Aflame,  and  burning  like  a  god  of  song, 
As  we  together  stood  against  the  throng 
Drawn  from  the  midnight  of  the  city  ways. 

To-night  the  world  about  us  is  ablaze 

And  he  is  dead,  is  dead.  .  .  .  Yet,  young  and  strong 

He  watches  with  us  still  with  deathless  gaze 

Aflame,  and  burning  like  a  god  of  song, 

As  we  together  stand  against  the  throng 

Drawn  from  the  bottomless  midnight  of  hell's  ways. 

loth  June,  1915. 


459 


MARRIAGE 

Going  my  way  of  old 
Contented  more  or  less 
I  dreamt  not  life  could  hold 
Such  happiness. 

I  dreamt  not  that  love's  way 
Could  keep  the  golden  height 
Day  after  happy  day, 
Night  after  night. 


460 


ROSES 

Red  roses  floating  in  a  crystal  bowl 
You  bring,  O  love ;  and  in  your  eyes  I  see, 
Blossom  on  blossom,  your  warm  love  of  me 
Burning  within  the  crystal  of  your  soul  — 
Red  roses  floating  in  a  crystal  bowl. 


461 


FOR  G. 

All  night  under  the  moon 

Plovers  are  flying 

Over  the  dreaming  meadows  of  silvery  light, 

Over  the  meadows  of  June 

Flying  and  crying  — 

Wandering  voices  of  love  in  the  hush  of  the  night. 

All  night  under  the  moon, 

Love,  though  we're  lying 

Quietly  under  the  thatch,  in  silvery  light 

Over  the  meadows  of  June 

Together  we're  flying  — 

Rapturous  voices  of  love  in  the  hush  of  the  night. 


462 


HOME 

I 
RETURN 

Under  the  brown  bird-haunted  eaves  of  thatch 
The  hollyhocks  in  crimson  glory  burned 
Against  black  timbers  and  old  rosy  brick, 
And  over  the  green  door  in  clusters  thick 
Hung  tangled  passion-flowers,  when  we  returned 
To  our  own  threshold :  and  with  hand  on  latch 
We  stood  a  moment  in  the  sunset  gleam 
And  looked  upon  our  home  as  in  a  dream. 

Rapt  in  a  golden  glow  of  still  delight 
Together  on  the  threshold  in  the  sun 
We  stood  rejoicing  that  we  two  had  won 
To  this  deep  golden  peace  ere  day  was  done, 
That  over  gloomy  plain  and  storm-swept  height 
We  two,  O  love,  had  won  to  home  ere  night. 


II 
CANDLE-LIGHT 

Where  through  the  open  window  I  could  see 
The  supper-table  in  the  golden  light 
Of  tall  white  candles  —  brasses  glinting  bright 
On  the  black  gleaming  board,  and  crockery, 
-Coloured  like  gardens  of  old  Araby  — 
In  your  blue  gown  against  the  walls  of  white 
You  stood  adream,  and  in  the  starry  night 
I  felt  strange  loneliness  steal  over  me. 

You  stood  with  eyes  upon  the  candle  flame 
That  kindled  your  thick  hair  to  burnished  gold, 
As  in  a  golden  spell  that  seemed  to  hold 
My  heart's  love  rapt  from  me  for  evermore.  . 
463 


464  FRIENDS 

And  then  you  stirred,  and  opening  the  door, 
Into  the  starry  night  you  breathed  my  name. 


Ill 
FIRELIGHT 

Against  the  curtained  casement  wind  and  sleet 
Rattle  and  thresh,  while  snug  by  our  own  fire 
In  dear  companionship  that  naught  may  tire 
We  sit, —  you  listening,  sewing  in  your  seat, 
Half-dreaming  in  the  glow  of  light  and  heat, 
I  reading  some  old  tale  of  love's  desire 
That  swept  on  gold  wings  to  disaster  dire 
Then  sprang  re-orient  from  black  defeat. 

I  close  the  book,  and  louder  yet  the  storm 
Threshes  without.     Your  busy  hands  are  still ; 
And  on  your  face  and  hair  the  light  is  warm, 
As  we  sit  gazing  on  the  coals'  red  gleam 
In  a  gold  glow  of  happiness,  and  dream 
Diviner  dreams  the  years  shall  yet  fulfil. 


IV 
MIDNIGHT 

Between  the  midnight  pillars  of  black  elms 

The  old  moon  hangs,  a  thin,  cold,  amber  flame 

Over  low  ghostly  mist:  a  lone  snipe  wheels 

Through  shadowy  moonshine,  droning:  and  there  steals 

Into  my  heart  a  fear  without  a  name 

Out  of  primaeval  night's  resurgent  realms, 

Unearthly  terror,  chilling  me  with  dread 

As  I  lie  waking  wide-eyed  on  the  bed. 

And  then  you  turn  towards  me  in  your  sleep 

Murmuring,  and  with  a  sigh  of  deep  content 

You  nestle  to  my  breast;  and  over  me 

Steals  the  warm  peace  of  you ;  and,  all  fear  spent, 

I  hold  you  to  me  sleeping  quietly, 

Till  I,  too,  sink  in  slumber  sound  and  deep. 


LIVELIHOOD 

(1914-1916) 


TO 

AUDREY 


Audrey,  these  men  and  women  I  have  known 
I  have  brought  together  in  a  book  for  you, 
So  that  my  child  some  day  when  she  is  grown 
May  know  the  friendly  folk  her  father  knew. 

Wondering  how  fathers  can  be  so  absurd, 
Perhaps  you'll  take  it  idly  from  the  shelves, 
And,  reading,  hear,  as  once  I  overheard, 
These  men  and  women  talking  to  themselves. 

And  so  find  out  how  they  faced  life  and  earned, 
As  you  one  day  must  earn,  a  livelihood, 
And  how,  in  spite  of  everything,  they  learned 
To  take  their  luck  through  life  and  find  it  good. 

And,  maybe,  as  you  share  each  hope  and  fear 
And  all  the  secrets  that  they  never  told, 
For  their  sake  you'll  forgive  your  father,  dear. 
Almost,  for  being  so  absurd  and  old. 

And  may  it  somewhat  help  to  make  amends 
To  think  that,  in  their  sorrow  and  their  mirth, 
Such  men  and  women  were  your  father's  friends 
In  old  incredible  days  before  your  birth. 

The  Old  Nail-shop.     1916. 


LIVELIHOOD 


THE  OLD  NAIL-SHOP 

I  dreamt  of  wings, —  and  waked  to  hear 

Through  the  low-sloping  ceiling  clear 

The  nesting  starlings  flutter  and  scratch 

Among  the  rafters  of  the  thatch, 

Not  twenty  inches  from  my  head  ; 

And  lay,  half-dreaming  in  my  bed, 

Watching  the  far  elms  —  bolt-upright 

Black  towers  of  silence  in  a  night 

Of  stars,  between  the  window-sill 

And  the  low-hung  eaves,  square-framed,  until 

I  drowsed,  and  must  have  slept  a  wink  .  .  . 

And  wakened  to  a  ceaseless  clink 

Of  hammers  ringing  on  the  air  ... 

And,  somehow,  only  half-aware, 

I'd  risen  and  crept  down  the  stair, 

Bewildered  by  strange  smoky  gloom, 

Until  I'd  reached  the  living-room 

That  once  had  been  a  nail-shop  shed. 

And  where  my  hearth  had  blazed,  instead 

I  saw  the  nail-forge  glowing  red ; 

And,  through  the  stife  and  smoky  glare, 

Three  dreaming  women  standing  there 

With  hammers  beating  red-hot  wire 

On  tinkling  anvils,  by  the  fire, 

To  ten-a-penny  nails ;  and  heard  — 

Though  none  looked  up  or  breathed  a  word  — 

The  song  each  heart  sang  to  the  tune 

Of  hammers,  through  a  summer's  noon, 

When  they  had  wrought  in  that  red  glow, 

Alive,  a  hundred  years  ago  — 

The  song  of  girl  and  wife  and  crone, 

Sung  in  the  heart  of  each  alone  .  .  . 

The  dim-eyed  crone  with  nodding  head  — 

"  He's  dead;  and  I'll,  too,  soon  be  dead." 

469 


470  LIVELIHOOD 

The  grave-eyed  mother,  gaunt  with  need 
"  Another  little  mouth  to  feed!  " 

The  black-eyed  girl,  with  eyes  alight  — 
"  I'll  wear  the  yellow  beads  to-night." 


THE  SHAFT 

He  must  have  lost  his  way,  somehow.     'Twould  seem 

He'd  taken  the  wrong  turning,  back  a  bit, 

After  his  lamp  ...  or  was  it  all  a  dream 

That  he'd  nigh  reached  the  cage  —  his  new  lamp  lit 

And  swinging  in  his  hand,  and  whistling,  glad 

To  think  the  shift  was  over  —  when  he'd  tripped 

And  stumbled,  like  the  daft,  club-footed  lad 

His  mother  called  him;  and  his  lamp  had  slipped 

And  smashed  to  smithereens;  and  left  him  there 

In  pitchy  dark,  half-stunned,  and  with  barked  shins? 

He'd  cursed  his  luck;  although  he  didn't  care, 

Not  overmuch:  you  suffered  for  your  sins: 

And,  anyway,  he  must  be  nigh  the  shaft; 

And  he  could  fumble  his  way  out  somehow, 

If  he  were  last,  and  none  came  by.     'Twas  daft 

To  do  a  trick  like  thon. 

And  even  now 

His  mother  would  be  waiting.     How  she'd  laugh 
To  hear  about  it !     She  was  always  game 
For  fun,  she  was,  and  such  a  one  for  chaff  — 
A  fellow  had  no  chance.     But  'twas  the  same 
With  women  always:  you  could  never  tell 
What  they'd  be  at,  or  after  saying  next : 
They'd  such  queer,  tricky  tongues ;  and  it  was  well 
For  men  to  let  them  talk  when  they  were  vexed  — 
Although,  his  mother,  she  was  seldom  cross. 
But  she'd  be  wondering,  now,  ay,  that  she  would  — 
Hands  folded  in  her  apron,  at  a  loss 
To  know  what  kept  him,  even  now  she  stood, 
Biting  her  lips,  he'd  warrant.     She  aye  bit 
Her  lips  till  they  were  white  when  things  went  wrong. 
She'd  never  liked  his  taking  to  the  pit, 
After  his  father'd.  .  .  .  Ay,  and  what  a  song 
She'd  make  .  .  .  and  supper  cold !     It  must  be  late. 
The  last  on  the  last  shift!     After  to-day 
The  pit  was  being  laid  idle!     Jack,  his  mate, 
Had  left  him,  tidying  —  hurrying  away 

47i 


472  LIVELIHOOD 

To  back  .  .  .  And  no  night-shift  .  .  . 

If  that  cursed  lamp 

Had  not  gone  out.  .  .  .  But  that  was  hours  ago  — 
How  many  hours  he  couldn't  tell.     The  cramp 
Was  in  his  thighs.     And  what  could  a  lad  know 
Who'd  crawled  for  hours  upon  his  hands  and  knees 
Through  miles  on  miles  of  hot,  black,  dripping  night 
Of  low-roofed,  unfamiliar  galleries? 
He'd  give  a  hundred  pound  to  stand  upright 
And  stretch  his  legs  a  moment:  but,  somehow, 
He'd  never  reached  a  refuge,  though  he'd  felt 
The  walls  on  either  hand.     He'd  bumped  his  brow 
Till  he  was  dizzy.     And  the  heat  would  melt 
The  marrow  in  his  bones.     And  yet  he'd  gone 
A  dozen  miles  at  least,  and  hadn't  found 
Even  a  crossway.     On  and  on  and  on 
He'd  crawled,  and  crawled ;  and  never  caught  a  sound 
Save  water  dripping,  dripping,  or  the  creak 
Of  settling  coal.     If  he  could  only  hear 
His  own  voice  even;  but  he  dared  not  speak 
Above  a  whisper  .  .  . 

There  was  naught  to  fear ; 
And  he  was  not  afraid  of  aught,  not  he! 
He  would  come  on  a  shaft,  before  he  knew. 
He  couldn't  miss.     The  longest  gallery 
Must  end  somewhere  or  other;  though  'twas  true 
He  hadn't  guessed  the  drift  could  be  so  long. 

If  he  had  not  come  straight  ...  If  he  had  turned, 
Unknowing,  in  the  dark  ...  If  he'd  gone  wrong 
Once,  then  why  not  a  dozen  times!     It  burned 
His  very  heart  to  tinder,  just  to  think 
That  he,  maybe,  was  crawling  round  and  round 
And  round  and  round,  and  hadn't  caught  a  blink 
Of  light  at  all,  or  hadn't  heard  a  sound.  .  .  . 
'Twas  queer,  gey  queer  .  .  . 

Or  was  he  going  daft, 
And  only  dreaming  he  was  underground 
In  some  black  pit  of  hell,  without  a  shaft  — 
Just  one  long  gallery  that  wound  and  wound, 
Where  he  must  crawl  forever  with  the  drip 
Of  lukewarm  water  drumming  on  his  back  .  .  . 

'Twas  nightmare,  surely,  had  him  in  its  grip. 


LIVELIHOOD  473 

His  head  was  like  to  split,  his  spine  to  crack  .  .  . 

If  he  could  only  call,  his  mother'd  come 

And  shake  him ;  and  he'd  find  himself  in  bed  .  .  . 

She'd  joke  his  fright  away  .  .  .   But  he  was  dumb, 

And  couldn't  shout  to  save  himself  .  .  .  His  head 

Seemed  full  of  water,  dripping,  dripping,  dripping  .  .  . 

And  he,  somehow,  inside  it  —  huge  and  dark 

His  own  skull  soared  above  him  .  .  .  He  kept  slipping, 

And  clutching  at  the  crumbling  walls  ...  A  spark 

Flared  suddenly;  and  to  a  blood-red  blaze 

His  head  was  bursting;  and  the  pain  would  break  .  .  . 

'Twas  solid  coal  he'd  run  against,  adaze  — 
Coal,  sure  enough.     And  he  was  broad  awake, 
And  crawling  still  through  that  unending  drift 
Of  some  old  working,  long  disused.     He'd  known 
That  there  were  such.     If  he  could  only  lift 
His  head  a  moment ;  but  the  roof  of  stone 
Crushed  low  upon  him.     A  gey  narrow  seam 
He  must  be  in, —  and  bad  to  work :  no  doubt 
That's  why  'twas  given  up.     He'd  like  to  scream, 
His  cut  knees  hurt  so  sorely;  but  a  shout 
Might  bring  the  crumbling  roof  down  on  his  head, 
And  squash  him  flat. 

If  he  could  only  creep 

Between  the  cool  white  sheets  of  his  own  bed, 
And  turn  towards  the  wall,  and  sleep,  and  sleep  — 
And  dream,  maybe,  of  pigeons  soaring  high, 
Turning  and  tumbling  in  the  morning  light, 
With  wings  ashimmer  in  a  cloudless  sky. 
He'd  give  the  world  to  see  a  bonnie  flight 
Of  his  own  pigeons  rise  with  flapping  wings, 
Soaring  and  sweeping  almost  out  of  sight, 
Till  he  was  dizzy,  watching  the  mad  things 
Tossing  and  tumbling  at  that  dazzling  height. 
Ay,  and  his  homers,  too  —  if  they'd  come  in, 
He  hoped  his  mother'd  fed  them.     They  would  be 
Fair  famished  after  such  a  flight,  and  thin. 
But  she  would  feed  them,  sure  enough ;  for  she 
Liked  pigeons,  too  —  would  stand  there  at  the  door 
With  arms  akimbo,  staring  at  the  blue, 
Her  black  eyes  shining  as  she  watched  them  soar, 
Without  a  word,  till  they  were  out  of  view. 
And  how  she  laughed  to  hear  them  scold  and  pout, 


474  LIVELIHOOD 

Ruffle  and  fuss  —  like  menfolk,  she  would  say: 
Nobody  knowing  what  'twas  all  about, 
•   And  least  of  all  themselves.     That  was  her  way, 
To  joke  and  laugh  the  tantrums  out  of  him. 
He'd  tie  his  neckerchief  before  the  glass; 
And  she'd  call  him  her  pigeon,  Peter  Prim, 
Preening  himself,  she'd  say,  to  meet  his  lass  — 
Though  he'd  no  lass,  not  he!     A  scarf  well  tied, 
No  gaudy  colours,  just  a  red  or  yellow, 
Was  what  he  fancied.     What  harm  if  he  tried 
To  keep  himself  respectable !     A  fellow  — 
Though  womenfolk  might  laugh  and  laugh  .  .  . 

And  now 

He  wondered  if  he'd  hear  her  laugh  again 
With  hands  on  hips  and  sparkling  eyes.     His  brow 
Seemed  clampt  with  red-hot  iron  bands;  and  pain 
Shot  red-hot  needles  through  his  legs  —  his  back, 
A  raw  and  aching  spine  that  bore  the  strain 
Of  all  the  earth  above  him:  the  dead  black 
Unending  clammy  night  blinding  his  brain 
To  a  black  blankness  shot  with  scarlet  streaks 
Of  searing  lightning;  and  he  scarcely  knew 
If  he'd  been  crawling  hours,  or  days,  or  weeks  .  .  . 
Arid  now  the  lightning  glimmered  faintly  blue, 
And  gradually  the  blackness  paled  to  grey: 
And  somewhere,  far  ahead,  he  caught  the  gleam 
Of  light,  daylight,  the  very  light  of  day, 
Day,  dazzling  day! 

Thank  God,  it  was  no  dream. 
He  felt  a  cooler  air  upon  his  face; 
And  scrambling  madly  for  some  moments  more, 
Though  centuries  it  seemed,  he  reached  the  place 
Where  through  the  chinks  of  the  old  crumbling  door 
Of  a  disused  upcast-shaft,  grey  ghostly  light 
Strained  feebly,  though  it  seemed  the  sun's  own  blaze 
To  eyes  so  long  accustomed  to  the  night 
And  peering  blindly  through  that  pitchy  maze. 

The  door  dropped  from  its  hinges  —  and  upright 

He  stood,  at  last,  bewildered  and  adaze, 

In  a  strange  dazzling  world  of  flowering  white. 

Plumed  snowy  fronds  and  delicate  downy  sprays, 

Fantastic  as  the  feathery  work  of  frost, 

Drooped  round  him  from  the  wet  walls  of  the  shaft  — 


LIVELIHOOD  475 

A  monstrous  growth  of  mould,  huge  mould.     And  lost 

In  wonder  he  stood  gaping;  and  then  laughed 

To  see  that  living  beauty  —  quietly 

He  laughed  to  see  it:  and  awhile  forgot 

All  danger.     He  would  tell  his  mother:  she 

Would  scarce  know  whether  to  believe  or  not, — 

But  laugh  to  hear  how,  when  he  came  on  it, 

It  dazzled  him.     If  she  could  only  see 

That  fluffy  white  —  come  on  it  from  the  pit, 

Snow-white  as  fantails'  feathers,  suddenly 

As  he  had,  she'd  laugh  too :  she  ... 

Icy  cold 

Shot  shuddering  through  him,  as  he  stept  beneath 
A  trickle.     He  looked  up.     That  monstrous  mould 
Frightened  him;  and  he  stood  with  chattering  teeth, 
Seeming  to  feel  it  growing  over  him 
Already,  shutting  out  the  fleck  of  sky 
That  up  the  slimy  shaft  gleamed  far  and  dim.     • 
'T would  flourish  on  his  bones  when  he  should  lie 
Forgotten  in  the  shaft.     Its  clammy  breath 
\Vas  choking  him  already.     He  would  die, 
And  no  one  know  how  he'd  come  by  his  death  .  .  . 
Dank,  cold  mould  growing  slowly.     By  and  by 
'Twould  cover  him ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell  .  .  . 

With  a  wild  cry  he  tried  to  scramble  out, 

Clutching  the  wall  .  .  .  Mould  covered  him  .  .  .  He  fell, 

As,  close  at  hand,  there  came  an  answering  shout. 


IN  THE  ORCHESTRA 

He'd  played  each  night  for  months ;  and  never  heard 

A  single  tinkly  tune,  or  caught  a  word 

Of  all  the  silly  songs  and  sillier  jests; 

And  he'd  seen  nothing,  even  in  the  rests, 

Of  that  huge  audience  piled  from  floor  to  ceiling 

Whose  stacked  white  faces  sent  his  dazed  wits  reeling  .  .  . 

He'd  been  too  happy;  and  had  other  things 

To  think  of  while  he  scraped  his  fiddle-strings  .  .  . 

But  now,  he'd  nothing  left  to  think  about  — 
Nothing  he  dared  to  think  of  ... 

In  and  out 

The  hollow  fiddle  of  his  head  the  notes 
Jingled  and  jangled ;  and  the  raucous  throats 
Of  every  star  rasped  jibes  into  his  ear, — 
Each  separate  syllable,  precise  and  clear, 
As  though  'twere  life  or  death  if  he  should  miss 
A  single  cackle,  crow  or  quack,  or  hiss 
Of  cockadoodling  fools  .  .  . 

A  week  ago 

He'd  sat  beside  her  bed ;  and  heard  her  low 
Dear  voice  talk  softly  of  her  hopes  and  fears  — 
Their  hopes  and  fears;  and  every  afternoon 
He'd  watched  her  lying  there  .  .  . 

A  fat  buffoon 

In  crimson  trousers  prancing,  strut  and  cluck  — 
Cackling:     "A  fellow  never  knows  his  luck. 
He  never  knows  his  luck.     He  never  knows 
His  luck."  .  .  .  And  in  and  out  the  old  gag  goes 
Of  either  ear,  and  in  and  out  again, 
Playing  at  "  You-can't-catch-me  "  through  his  brain  — 
"  'Er  knows  his  luck."  .  .  . 

How  well  they  thought  they  knew 
Their  luck,  and  such  a  short  while  since,  they  two 
Together.     Life  was  lucky ;  and  'twas  good 
Then,  to  be  fiddling  for  a  livelihood  — 
His  livelihood  and  hers  .  .  . 

476 


LIVELIHOOD  477 

A  woman  sang 

With  grinning  teeth.     The  whole  house  rocked  and  rang. 
In  the  whole  house  there  was  no  empty  place: 
And  there  were  grinning  teeth  in  every  face 
Of  all  those  faces,  grinning,  tier  on  tier, 
From  orchestra  to  ceiling  chandelier 
That  caught  in  every  prism  a  grinning  light, 
As  from  the  little  black  box  up  a  height 
The  changing  limelight  streamed  down  on  the  stage. 
And  he  was  filled  with  reasonless,  dull  rage 
To  see  those  grinning  teeth,  those  grinning  rows ; 
And  wondered  if  those  lips  would  never  close, 
But  gape  for  ever  through  an  endless  night, 
Grinning  and  mowing  in  the  green  limelight. 

And  now  they  seemed  to  grin  in  mockery 

Of  him ;  and  then,  as  he  turned  suddenly 

To  face  them,  flaming,  it  was  his  own  face 

That  mowed  and  grinned  at  him  from  every  place  — 

Grimacing  on  him  with  the  set,  white  grin 

Of  his  own  misery  through  that  dazzling  din  .  .  . 

Yet,  all  the  while  he  hadn't  raised  his  head, 

But  fiddled,  fiddled  for  his  daily  bread, 

His  livelihood  —  no  longer  hers  .  .  . 

And  now 

He  heard  no  more  the  racket  and  the  row, 
Nor  saw  the  aching,  glittering  glare,  nor  smelt 
The  smother  of  hot  breaths  and  smoke  —  but  felt 
A  wet  wind  on  his  face  .  .  . 

He  sails  again 

Home  with  her  up  the  river  in  the  rain  — 
Leaving  the  grey  domes  and  grey  colonnades 
Of  Greenwich  in  their  wake  as  daylight  fades  — 
By  huge  dark  cavernous  wharves  with  flaring  lights, 
Warehouses  built  for  some  mad  London  night's 
Fantastic  entertainment, —  grimmer  far 
Than  Bagdad  dreamt  of  —  monstrous  and  bizarre, 
They  loom  against  the  night ;  and  seem  to  hold 
Preposterous  secrets  horrible  and  old, 
Behind  black  doors  and  windows. 

Yet  even  they 

Make  magic  with  more  mystery  the  way, 
As,  hand  in  hand,  they  sail  through  the  blue  gloam 
Up  the  old  river  of  enchantment,  home  .  .  . 


478  LIVELIHOOD 

He  heard  strange,  strangled  voices  —  he,  alone 
Once  more, —  like  voices  through  the  telephone, 
Thin  and  unreal,  inarticulate 
Twanging  and  clucking  at  terrific  rate  — 
Pattering,  pattering  .  .  . 

And  again  aware 

He  grew  of  all  the  racket  and  the  glare, 
Aware  again  of  the  antic  strut  and  cluck  — 
And  there  was  poor  old  "  Never-know-his-luck  " 
Doing  another  turn  —  yet,  not  a  smile, 
Although  he'd  changed  his  trousers  and  his  style. 
The  same  old  trousers  and  the  same  old  wheeze 
Was  what  the  audience  liked.     He  tried  to  please, 
And  knew  he  failed :  and  suddenly  turned  old 
Before  those  circling  faces  glum  and  cold  — 
A  fat  old  man  with  cracked  voice  piping  thin, 
Trying  to  make  those  wooden  faces  grin, 
With  frantic  kicks  and  desperate  wagging  head, 
To  win  the  applause  that  meant  his  daily  bread  — 
Gagging  and  prancing  for  a  livelihood, 
His  daily  bread  .  .  . 

God !  how  he  understood ! 
He'd  fiddled  for  their  livelihood  —  for  her, 
And  for  the  one  who  never  came  .  .  . 

A  stir 

Upon  the  stage ;  and  now  another  turn  — 
The  old  star  guttered  out,  too  old  to  burn. 
And  he  remembered  she  had  liked  the  chap 
When  she'd  been  there  that  night.     He'd  seen  her  clap 
Laughing  so  merrily.     She  liked  it  all  — 
The  razzle-dazzle  of  the  music-hall  — 
And  laughing  faces  .  .  .  said  she  liked  to  see 
Hardworking  people  laughing  heartily 
After  the  day's  work.     She  liked  everything  — 
His  playing,  even!     Snap  .  .  .  another  string  — 
The  third! 

And  she'd  been  happy  in  that  place, 
Seeing  a  friendly  face  in  every  face. 
That  was  her  way  —  the  whole  world  was  her  friend. 
And  she'd  been  happy,  happy  to  the  end, 
As  happy  as  the  day  was  long  .  .  . 

And  he 
Fiddled  on,  dreaming  of  her  quietly. 


THE  SWING 

'Twas  jolly,  swinging  through  the  air, 
With  young  Dick  Garland  sitting  there 
Tugging  the  rope  with  might  and  main, 
His  round  face  flushed,  his  arms  astrain, 
His  laughing  blue  eyes  shining  bright, 
As  they  went  swinging  through  the  light  — 
As  they  went  swinging,  ever  higher 
Until  it  seemed  that  they  came  nigher 
At  every  swing  to  the  blue  sky  — 
Until  it  seemed  that  by-and-by 
The  boat  would  suddenly  swing  through 
That  sunny  dazzle  of  clear  blue  — 
And  they,  together  .  .  . 

Yesterday 

She'd  hardly  thought  she'd  get  away: 
The  mistress  was  that  cross,  and  she 
Had  only  told  her  after  tea 
That  ere  she  left  she  must  set  to 
And  turn  the  parlour  out.     She  knew, 
Ay,  well  enough,  that  it  meant  more 
Than  two  hours'  work.     And  so  at  four 
She'd  risen  that  morn ;  and  done  it  all 
Before  her  mistress  went  to  call 
And  batter  at  her  bedroom  door 
At  six  to  rouse  her.     Such  a  floor, 
So  hard  to  sweep ;  and  all  that  brass 
To  polish !     Any  other  lass 
But  her  would  have  thrown  up  the  place, 
And  told  the  mistress  to  her  face  .  .  . 

But  how  could  she !     Her  money  meant 
So  much  to  them  at  home.     'Twas  spent 
So  quickly,  though  so  hard  to  earn. 
She'd  got  to  keep  her  place,  and  learn 
To  hold  her  tongue.     Though  it  was  hard, 
The  little  house  in  Skinner's  Yard 
Must  be  kept  going.     She  would  rob 
The  bairns  if  she  should  lose  her  job, 
479 


480  LIVELIHOOD 

And  they'd  go  hungry  .  .  . 

Since  the  night 

They'd  brought  home  father,  cold  and  white, 
Upon  a  stretcher,  mother  and  she 
Had  had  to  struggle  ceaselessly 
To  keep  a  home  together  at  all. 
'Twas  lucky  she  was  big  and  tall 
And  such  a  strong  lass  for  fifteen. 
She  couldn't  think  where  they'd  have  been 
If  she'd  not  earned  enough  to  feed 
And  help  to  keep  the  bairns  from  need  — 
Those  five  young  hungry  mouths  .  .  . 

And  she 

For  one  long  day  beside  the  sea 
Was  having  a  rare  holiday  .  .  . 

'Twas  queer  that  Dick  should  want  to  pay 
So  much  good  money,  hardly  earned, 
To  bring  her  with  him  .  .  . 

How  it  burned, 

That  blazing  sun  in  the  blue  sky ! 
And  it  was  good  to  swing  so  high  — 
So  high  into  the  burning  blue, 
Until  it  seemed  they'd  swing  right  through  .  .  . 

And  good  just  to  be  sitting  there 
And  watching  Dick  with  tumbled  hair 
And  his  red  necktie  floating  free 
Against  the  blue  of  sky  and  sea, 
As  up  and  down  and  up  and  down 
Beyond  the  low  roofs  of  the  town 
They  swung  and  swung  .  .  . 

And  he  was  glad 
To  pay  for  her,  the  foolish  lad, 
And  happy  to  be  swinging  there 
With  her,  and  rushing  through  the  air, 
So  high  into  the  burning  blue 
It  seemed  that  they  would  swing  right  through  .  .  . 

'Twas  well  that  she  had  caught  the  train, 
She'd  had  to  run  with  might  and  main 
To  catch  it:  and  Dick  waiting  there 
With  tickets  ready  .  .  . 

How  his  hair 


LIVELIHOOD  481 

Shone  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  light 
Made  his  blue,  laughing  eyes  so  bright 
Whenever  he  looked  up  at  her  .  .  . 

She'd  like  to  sit,  and  never  stir 

Again  out  of  that  easy  seat  — 

With  no  more  mats  to  shake  and  beat 

And  no  more  floors  to  sweep,  no  stairs 

To  scrub,  and  no  more  heavy  chairs 

To  move  —  for  she  was  sleepy  now  .  .  . 

Dick's  hair  had  fallen  over  his  brow 

Into  his  eyes.     He  shook  them  free, 

And  laughed  to  her.     'Twas  queer  that  he 

Should  think  it  worth  his  while  to  pay, 

And  give  her  such  a  holiday  .  .  . 

But  she  was  sleepy  now.     'Twas  rare, 

As  they  were  rushing  through  the  air 

To  see  Dick's  blue  eyes  shining  bright 

As  they  went  swinging  through  the  light, 

As  they  went  swinging  ever  higher 

Until  it  seemed  that  they  came  nigher 

At  every  swing  to  that  blue  sky  — 

Until  it  seemed  that  by-and-by 

Their  boat  would  suddenly  swing  through 

That  sunny  dazzle  of  clear  blue  .  .  . 

If  she  could  swing  for  evermore 
With  Dick  above  that  golden  shore, 
With  no  more  parlour-floors  to  sweep  — 
If  she  could  only  swing  and  sleep  .  .  . 
And  wake  to  see  Dick's  eyes  burn  bright, 
To  see  them  laughing  with  delight 
As  suddenly  they  swung  right  through 
That  sunny  dazzle  of  clear  blue  — 
And  they  two,  sailing  on  together 
For  ever  through  that  shining  weather! 


THE  DROVE-ROAD 

'Xwas  going  to  snow — 'twas  snowing!     Curse  his  luck! 

And  fifteen  mile  to  travel  —  here  was  he 

With  nothing  but  an  empty  pipe  to  suck, 

And  half  a  flask  of  rum  —  but  that  would  be 

More  welcome  later  on.     He'd  had  a  drink 

Before  he  left ;  and  that  would  keep  him  warm 

A  tidy  while:  and  'twould  be  good  to  think 

He'd  something  to  fall  back  on,  if  the  storm 

Should  come  to  much.     You  never  knew  with  snow. 

A  sup  of  rain  he  didn't  mind  at  all, 

But  snow  was  different  with  so  far  to  go  — 

Full  fifteen  mile,  and  not  a  house  of  call. 

Ay,  snow  was  quite  another  story,  quite  — 

Snow  on  these  fell-tops  with  a  north-east  wind 

Behind  it,  blowing  steadily  with  a  bite 

That  made  you  feel  that  you  were  stark  and  skinned. 

And  these  poor  beasts  —  and  they  just  off  the  boat 
A  day  or  so,  and  hardly  used  to  land  — 
Still  dizzy  with  the  sea,  their  wits  afloat. 
When  they  first  reached  the  dock,  they  scarce  could  stand, 
They'd  been  so  joggled.     It's  gey  bad  to  cross, 
After  a  long  day's  jolting  in  the  train 
Thon  Irish  Channel,  always  pitch  and  toss  — 
And  heads  or  tails,  not  much  for  them  to  gain ! 
And  then  the  market,  and  the  throng  and  noise 
Of  yapping  dogs ;  and  they  stung  mad  with  fear, 
Welted  with  switches  by  those  senseless  boys  — 
He'd  like  to  dust  their  jackets !     But  'twas  queer, 
A  beast's  life,  when  you  came  to  think  of  it 
From  start  to  finish  —  queerer,  ay,  a  lot 
Than  any  man's,  and  chancier  a  good  bit. 
With  his  ash-sapling  at  their  heels  they'd  got 
To  travel  before  night  those  fifteen  miles 
Of  hard  fell-road,  against  the  driving  snow, 
Half-blinded,  on  and  on.     He  thought  at  whiles 
'Twas  just  as  well  for  them  they  couldn't  know  .  .  . 
482 


LIVELIHOOD  483 

Though,  as  for  that,  'twas  little  that  he  knew 
Himself  what  was  in  store  for  him.  .  He  took 
Things  as  they  came.     'Twas  all  a  man  could  do ; 
And  he'd  kept  going,  somehow,  by  hook  or  crook. 
And  here  was  he,  with  fifteen  mile  of  fell, 
And  snow,  and  .  .  .  God,  but  it  was  blowing  stiff! 
And  no  tobacco.     Blest  if  he  could  tell 
Where  he  had  lost  it  —  but,  for  half  a  whiff 
He'd  swop  the  very  jacket  off  his  back  — 
Not  that  he'd  miss  the  cobweb  of  old  shreds 
That  held  the  holes  together. 

Thon  Cheap- Jack 

Who'd  sold  it  him  had  said  it  was  Lord  Ted's, 
And  London  cut.     But  Teddy  had  grown  fat 
Since  he'd  been  made  an  alderman  .  .  .  His  bid? 
And  did  the  gentleman  not  want  a  hat 
To  go  with  it,  a  topper?     If  he  did, 
Here  was  the  very  .  .  . 

Hell,  but  it  was  cold : 

And  driving  dark  it  was  —  nigh  dark  as  night. 
He'd  almost  think  he  must  be  getting  old, 
To  feel  the  wind  so.     And  long  out  of  sight 
The  beasts  had  trotted.     Well,  what  odds !     The  way 
Ran  straight  for  ten  miles  on,  and  they'd  go  straight. 
They'd  never  heed  a  by-road.     Many  a  day 
He'd  had  to  trudge  on,  trusting  them  to  fate, 
And  always  found  them  safe.     They  scamper  fast, 
But  in  the  end  a  man  could  walk  them  down. 
They're  showy  trotters;  but  they  cannot  last. 
He'd  race  the  fastest  beast  for  half-a-crown 
On  a  day's  journey.     Beasts  were  never  made 
For  steady  travelling ;  drive  them  twenty  mile, 
And  they  were  done ;  while  he  was  not  afraid 
To  tackle  twice  that  distance  with  a  smile. 

But  not  a  day  like  this!     He'd  never  felt  • 

A  wind  with  such  an  edge.     'Twas  like  the  blade 

Of  the  rasper  in  the  pocket  of  his  belt 

He  kept  for  easy  shaving.     In  his  trade 

You'd  oft  to  make  your  toilet  under  a  dyke  — 

And  he  was  always  one  for  a  clean  chin, 

And  carried  soap. 

He'd  never  felt  the  like  — 
That  wind,  it  cut  clean  through  him  to  the  skin. 


484  LIVELIHOOD 

He  might  be  mother-naked,  walking  bare, 

For  all  the  ust  his  clothes  were,  with  the  snow 

Half-blinding  him,  and  clagging  to  his  hair, 

And  trickling  down  his  spine.     He'd  like  to  know 

What  was  the  sense  of  pegging  steadily, 

Chilled  to  the  marrow,  after  a  daft  herd 

Of  draggled  beasts  he  couldn't  even  see ! 

But  that  was  him  all  over!     Just  a  word, 
A  nod,  a  wink,  the  price  of  half-and-half  — 
And  he'd  be  setting  out  for  God-knows-where, 
With  no  more  notion  than  a  yearling  calf 
Where  he  would  find  himself  when  he  got  there. 
And  he'd  been  travelling  hard  on  sixty  year 
The  same  old  road,  the  same  old  giddy  gait ; 
And  he'd  be  walking,  for  a  pint  of  beer, 
Into  his  coffin,  one  day,  soon  or  late  — 
But  not  with  such  a  tempest  in  his  teeth, 
Half-blinded  and  half-dothered,  that  he  hoped ! 
He'd  met  a  sight  of  weather  on  the  heath, 
But  this  beat  all. 

'Twas  worse  than  when  he'd  groped 
His  way  that  evening  down  the  Mallerstang  — 
Thon  was  a  blizzard,  thon  —  and  he  was  done, 
And  almost  dropping  when  he  came  a  bang 
Against  a  house  —  slap-bang,  and  like  to  stun !  — 
Though  that  just  saved  his  senses  —  and  right  there 
He  saw  a  lighted  window  he'd  not  seen, 
Although  he'd  nearly  staggered  through  its  glare 
Into  a  goodwife's  kitchen,  where  she'd  been 
Baking  hot  griddlecakes  upon  the  peat. 
And  he  could  taste  them  now,  and  feel  the  glow 
Of  steady,  aching,  tingly,  drowsy  heat, 
As  he  sat  there  and  let  the  caking  snow 
Melt  off  his  boots,  staining  the  sanded  floor. 
And  that  brown  jug  she  took  down  from  the  shelf  — 
And  every  time  he'd  finished,  fetching  more, 
And  piping:     "  Now  reach  up,  and  help  yourself!  " 
She  was  a  wonder,  thon,  the  gay  old  wife  — 
But  no  such  luck  this  journey.     Things  like  that 
Could  hardly  happen  every  day  of  life, 
Or  no  one  would  be  dying,  but  the  fat 
And  oily  undertakers,  starved  to  death 
For  want  of  custom  .  .  .  Hell !  but  he  would  soon 


LIVELIHOOD  485 

Be  giving  them  a  job  ...  It  caught  your  breath, 
That  throttling  wind.     And  it  was  not  yet  noon; 
And  he'd  be  travelling  through  it  until  dark.'' 
Dark !     'Twas  already  dark,  and  might  be  night 
For  all  that  he  could  see  .  .  . 

And  not  a  spark 

Of  comfort  for  him!     Just  to  strike  a  light, 
And  press  the  kindling  shag  down  in  the  bowl, 
Keeping  the  flame  well-shielded  by  his  hand, 
And  puff,  and  puff!     He'd  give  his  very  soul 
For  half-a-pipe.     He  couldn't  understand 
How  he  had  come  to  lose  it.     He'd  the  rum  — 
Ay,  that  was  safe  enough :  but  it  would  keep 
Awhile,  you  never  knew  what  chance  might  come 
In  such  a  storm  .  .  . 

If  he  could  only  sleep  .  .  . 
If  he  could  only  sleep  .  .  .  That  rustling  sound 
Of  drifting  snow,  it  made  him  sleepy-like  — 
Drowsy  and  dizzy,  dithering  round  and  round  .  .  . 
If  he  could  only  curl  up  under  a  dyke, 
And  sleep  and  sleep  ...  It  dazzled  him,  that  white, 
Drifting  and  drifting,  round  and  round  and  round  .  .  . 
Just  half-a-moment's  snooze  .  .  .  He'd  be  all  right. 
It  made  his  head  quite  dizzy,  that  dry  sound 
Of  rustling  snow.     It  made  his  head  go  round  — 
That  rustling  in  his  ears  .  .  .  and  drifting,  drifting  .  .  . 
If  he  could  only  sleep  ...  he  would  sleep  sound  .  .  . 
God,  he  was  nearly  gone! 

The  storm  was  lifting; 

And  he'd  run  into  something  soft  and  warm  — 
Slap  into  his  own  beasts,  and  never  knew. 
Huddled  they  were,  bamboozled  by  the  storm  — 
And  little  wonder  either,  when  it  blew 
A  blasted  blizzard.     Still,  they'd  got  to  go. 
They  couldn't  stand  there  snoozing  until  night. 

But  they  were  sniffing  something  in  the  snow. 

'Twas  that  had  stopped  them,  something  big  and  white  — 

A  bundle  —  nay,  a  woman  ...  and  she  slept. 

But  it  was  death  to  sleep. 

He'd  nearly  dropt 

Asleep  himself.  'Twas  well  that  he  had  kept 
That  rum ;  and  lucky  that  the  beasts  had  stopt. 
Ay,  it  was  well  that  he  had  kept  the  rum. 


486  LIVELIHOOD 

He  liked  his  drink :  but  he  had  never  cared 
For  soaking  by  himself,  and  sitting  mum. 
Even  the  best  rum  tasted  better,  shared. 


THE  ROCKLIGHT 

Ay,  he  must  keep  his  mind  clear  —  must  not  think 

Of  those  two  lying  dead,  or  he'd  go  mad. 

The  glitter  on  the  lenses  made  him  blink; 

The  brass  glared  speckless:  work  was  all  he  had 

To  keep  his  mind  clear.     He  must  keep  it  clear 

And  free  of  fancies,  now  that  there  was  none, 

None  left  but  him  to  light  the  lantern  —  near 

On  fourteen  hours  yet  till  that  blazing  sun 

Should  drop  into  that  quiet  oily  sea, 

And  he  must  light  .  .  .  though  it  was  not  his  turn: 

'Twas  Jacob's, —  Jacob,  lying  quietly 

Upon  his  bed  .  .  .  And  yet  the  light  would  burn 

And  flash  across  the  darkness  just  as  though 

Nothing  had  happened,  white  and  innocent, 

As  if  Jake's  hand  had  lit  it.     None  would  know, 

No  seaman  steering  by  it,  what  it  meant 

To  him,  since  he'd  seen  Jacob  .  .  . 

But  that  way 

Lay  madness.  He,  at  least,  must  keep  his  wits; 
Or  there'd  be  none  to  tell  why  those  two  lay  ... 
He  must  keep  working,  or  he'd  go  to  bits. 

Ere  sunset,  he  must  wind  the  lantern  up. 

He'd  like  to  wind  it  now  —  but  'twould  go  round, 

And  he'd  be  fancying  .  .  .  Neither  bite  nor  sup 

He'd  touched  this  morning;  and  the  clicking  sound 

Would  set  his  light  head  fancying  .  .  .  Jacob  wound 

So  madly  that  last  time,  before  .  .  .  But  he, 

He  mustn't  think  of  Jacob.     He  was  bound, 

In  duty  bound,  to  keep  his  own  wits  free 

And  clear  of  fancies. 

He  would  think  of  home. 

That  thought  would  keep  him  whole,  when  all  else  failed 
The  green  door ;  and  the  doorstep,  white  as  foam ; 
The  window  that  blazed  bright  the  night  he  sailed 
Out  of  the  moonlit  harbour, —  clean  and  gay 
'Twould  shine  this  morning  in  the  sun,  with  white 
487 


488  LIVELIHOOD 

Dimity  curtains,  and  a  grand  display 

Of  red  geraniums,  glowing  in  the  light. 

He  always  liked  geraniums :  such  a  red  — 

It  put  a  heart  in  you.     His  mother,  too, 

She  liked  .  .  . 

And  she'd  be  lying  still  in  bed, 

And  never  dreaming!     If  she  only  knew! 

But  he,  ...  he  mustn't  think  of  them  just  now  — 

Must  keep  off  fancies  .  .  . 

She'd  be  lying  there, 

Sleeping  so  quietly  —  her  smooth  white  brow 

So  calm  beneath  the  wisps  of  silver  hair 

Slipped  out  beneath  her  mutch-frills.     She  had  pride 

In  those  fine  caps,  and  ironed  them  herself. 

The  very  morning  that  his  father'd  died, 

Drowned  in  the  harbour,  turning  to  the  shelf, 

She  took  her  iron  down,  without  a  word, 

And  ironed,  with  her  husband  lying  dead  .  .  . 

As  they  were  lying  now  .  .  .  He  never  heard 

Her  speak,  or  saw  her  look  towards  the  bed. 

She  ironed,  ironed.     He  had  thought  it  queer  — 

The  little  shivering  lad  perched  in  his  chair, 

And  hungry  —  though  he  dared  not  speak  for  fear 

His  father'd  wake,  and  with  wet  streaming  hair 

Would  rise  up  from  the  bed  .  .  . 

He'd  thought  it  strange 

Then,  but  he  understood  now,  understood. 

You'd  got  to  work,  or  let  your  fancies  range ; 

And  fancies  played  the  devil  when  they  could. 

They  got  the  upper  hand,  if  you  loosed  grip 

A  moment.     Iron  frills,  or  polish  brass 

To  keep  a  hold  upon  yourself,  not  slip 

As  Jacob  slipt  .  .  . 

A  very  burning-glass 

Those  lenses  were.     He'd  have  to  drop  off  soon, 

And  find  another  job  to  fill  the  morn, 

And  keep  him  going  through  the  afternoon  — 

And  it  was  not  yet  five !  .  .  . 

Ay,  he  was  born 

In  the  very  bed  where  still  his  mother  slept, 
And  where  his  father'd  lain  —  a  cupboard  bed 
Let  in  the  wall,  more  like  a  bunk,  and  kept 
Decent  with  curtains  drawn  from  foot  to  head 
By  day,  though  why  —  but  'twas  the  women's  way: 


LIVELIHOOD  489 

They  always  liked  things  tidy.     They  were  right  — 

Better  to  keep  things  tidy  through  the  day, 

Or  there  would  be  the  devil's  mess  by  night. 

He  liked  things  shipshape,  too,  himself.     He  took 

After  his  mother  in  more  ways  than  one. 

He'd  say  this  for  her  —  she  could  never  brook 

A  sloven ;  and  she'd  made  a  tidy  son. 

'Twas  well  for  him  that  he  was  tidy,  now 

That  he  was  left ;  or  how'd  he  ever  keep 

His  thoughts  in  hand  .  .  .  The  Lord  alone  knew  how 

He'd  keep  them  tidy,  till  .  .  . 

Yet,  she  could  sleep: 

And  he  was  glad,  ay,  glad  that  she  slept  sound. 
It  did  him  good,  to  think  of  her  so  still. 
It  kept  his  thoughts  from  running  round  and  round 
Like  Jacob  in  the  lighted  lantern,  till  .  .  . 
God!     They  were  breaking  loose!     He  must  keep  hold  .  .  . 

On  one  side,  "  Albert  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales," 
Framed  in  cut  cork,  painted  to  look  like  gold  — 
On  the  other  a  red  frigate,  with  white  sails 
Bellying,  and  a  blue  pennon  fluttering  free, 
Upon  a  sea  dead  calm.     He  couldn't  think, 
As  a  wee  lad,  how  ever  this  could  be. 
And  when  he'd  asked,  his  father  with  a  wink 
Had  only  answered  laughing:     Little  chaps 
Might  think  they  knew  a  lot,  and  had  sharp  eyes. 
But  only  pigs  could  see  the  wind.     Perhaps 
The  painter'd  no  pig  by  him  to  advise. 

That  was  his  father's  way:  he'd  always  jest, 

And  chuckle  in  his  beard,  with  eyes  half-shut 

And  twinkling  .  .  .  Strange  to  think  of  them  at  rest 

And  lightless,  those  blue  eyes,  beneath  that  cut 

Where  the  jagged  rock  had  gashed  his  brow  —  the  day 

His  wife  kept  ironing  those  snowy  frills, 

To  keep  herself  from  thinking  how  he  lay, 

And  wouldn't  jest  again.     It's  that  that  kills  — 

The  thinking  over  .  .  . 

Jacob  jested,  too: 

He'd  always  some  new  game,  was  full  of  chaff. 
The  very  morn  before  the  lantern  drew  .  .  . 
Yesterday  morn  that  was,  he  heard  him  laugh  .  .  . 


490  LIVELIHOOD 

Yesterday  morn!     And  was  it  just  last  night 

He'd  wakened,  startled ;  and  run  out,  to  find 

Jacob  within  the  lantern,  round  the  light 

Fluttering  like  a  moth,  naked  and  blind 

And  laughing  .  .  .  Peter  staring,  turned  to  stone  .  .  . 

The  struggle  .  .  .  Peter  killed  .  .  . 

And  he  must  keep 

His  mind  clear  at  all  costs,  himself,  alone 
On  that  grey  naked  rock  of  the  great  deep, 
Full  forty  mile  from  shore  —  where  there  were  men 
Alive  and  breathing  at  this  moment  —  ay, 
Men  deep  in  easy  slumber  even  then, 
Who  yet  would  waken  and  look  on  the  sky. 

He  must  keep  his  mind  clear,  to  light  the  lamp 

Ere  sunset :  ay,  and  clear  the  long  night  through 

To  tell  how  they  had  died.     He  mustn't  scamp 

The  truth  —  and  yet  'twas  little  that  he  knew  ... 

What  had  come  over  Jacob  in  the  night 

To  send  him  mad  and  stripping  himself  bare  .  .  . 

And  how  he'd  ever  climbed  into  the  light  — 

And  it  revolving  .  .  .  and  the  heat  and  glare! 

No  wonder  he'd  gone  blind  —  the  lenses  burning 

And  blazing  round  him ;  and  in  each  he'd  see 

A  little  naked  self  .  .  .  and  turning,  turning, 

Till,  blinded,  scorched,  and  laughing  crazily, 

He'd  dropped :  and  Peter  .  .  .  Peter  might  have  known 

The  truth,  if  he  had  lived  to  tell  the  tale  — 

But  Peter'd  tripped  .  .  .  and  he  was  left  alone  .  .  . 

Just  thirty  hours  till  he  should  see  the  sail 
Bringing  them  food  and  letters  —  food  for  them ; 
Letters  from  home  for  them  .  .  .  and  here  was  he 
Shuddering  like  a  boat  from  stern  to  stem 
When  a  wave  takes  it  broadside  suddenly. 
He  must  keep  his  mind  clear  .  .  . 

His  mother  lay 

Peacefully  slumbering.     And  she,  poor  soul, 
Had  kept  her  mind  clear,  ironing  that  day  — 
Had  kept  her  wits  about  her,  sound  and  whole  — 
And  for  his  sake.     Ay,  where  would  he  have  been, 
If  she  had  let  her  fancies  have  their  way 
That  morning,  having  seen  what  she  had  seen ! 
He'd  thought  it  queer  .  .  .  But  it  was  no  child's  play 


LIVELIHOOD  491 

Keeping  the  upper  hand  of  your  own  wits. 

He  knew  that  now.     If  only  for  her  sake. 

He  mustn't  let  his  fancies  champ  their  bits 

Until  they  foamed  .  .  .  He  must  jam  on  the  brake 

Or  he  ... 

He  must  think  how  his  mother  slept; 
How  soon  she  would  be  getting  out  of  bed ; 
Would  dress ;  and  breakfast  by  the  window,  kept 
So  lively  with  geraniums  blazing  red  ; 
Would  open  the  green  door,  and  wash  the  stone, 
Foam-white  enough  already:  then,  maybe, 
She'd  take  her  iron  down,  and,  all  alone, 
Would  iron,  iron,  iron  steadily  — 
Keeping  her  fancies  quiet,  till  he  came  .  .  . 

To-morrow,  he'd  be  home :  he'd  see  the  white 
Welcoming  threshold,  and  the  window's  flame, 
And  her  grave  eyes  kindling  with  kindly  light. 


THE  PLOUGH 

He  sniffed  the  clean  and  eager  smell 

Of  crushed  wild  garlic,  as  he  thrust 

Beneath  the  sallows :  and  a  spell 

He  stood  there  munching  a  thick  crust  — 

The  fresh  tang  giving  keener  zest 

To  bread  and  cheese ;  and  watched  a  pair 

Of  wagtails  preening  wing  and  breast, 

Then  running  —  flirting  tails  in  air, 

And  pied  plumes  sleeked  to  silky  sheen  — 

Chasing  each  other  in  and  out 

The  wet  wild  garlic's  white  and  green. 

And  then  remembering,  with  a  shout, 
And  rattle  whirring,  he  ran  back 
Again  into  the  Fair  Maid's  Mead, 
To  scare  the  rascal  thieves  and  black 
That  flocked  from  far  and  near  to  feed 
Upon  the  sprouting  grain.     As  one 
They  rose  with  clapping  rustling  wings  — 
Rooks,  starlings,  pigeons,  in  the  sun 
Circling  about  him  in  wide  rings, 
And  plovers  hovering  over  him 
In  mazy,  interweaving  flight  — 
Until  it  made  his  young  wits  swim 
To  see  them  up  against  the  light, 
A  dazzling  dance  of  black  and  white 
Against  the  clear  blue  April  sky  — 
Wings  on  wings  in  flashing  flight 
Swooping  low  and  soaring  high  — 
Swooping,  soaring,  fluttering,  flapping, 
Tossing,  tumbling,  swerving,  dipping, 
Chattering,  cawing,  creaking,  clapping, 
Till  he  felt  his  senses  slipping  — 
And  gripped  his  corncrake  rattle  tight, 
And  flourished  it  above  his  head 
Till  every  bird  was  out  of  sight: 
And  laughed,  when  all  had  flown  and  fled, 
492 


LIVELIHOOD  493 

To  think  that  he,  and  all  alone, 
Could  put  so  many  thieves  to  rout. 

Then  sitting  down  upon  a  stone 
He  wondered  if  the  school  were  out  — 
The  school  where,  only  yesterday, 
He'd  sat  at  work  among  his  mates  — 
At  work  that  now  seemed  children's  play, 
With  pens  and  pencils,  books  and  slates  — 
Although  he'd  liked  it  well  enough, 
The  hum  and  scuffling  of  the  school, 
And  hadn't  cared  when  Grim-and-Gruff 
Would  call  him  dunderhead  and  fool. 

And  he  could  see  them  sitting  there  — 
His  class-mates,  in  the  lime-washed  room, 
With  fingers  inked  and  towzled  hair  — 
Bill  Baxter  with  red  cheeks  abloom, 
And  bright  black  eyes;  and  Ginger  Jim 
With  freckled  face  and  solemn  look, 
Who'd  wink  a  pale  blue  eye  at  him, 
Then  sit  intent  upon  his  book, 
While,  caught  a-giggle,  he  was  caned. . 

He'd  liked  that  room,  he'd  liked  it  all  — 

The  window  steaming  when  it  rained  ; 

The  sunlight  dancing  on  the  wall 

Among  the  glossy  charts  and  maps ; 

The  blotchy  stain  beside  the  clock 

That  only  he  of  all  the  chaps 

Knew  for  a  chart  of  Dead  Man's  Rock 

That  lies  in  Tiger  Island  Bay  — 

The  reef  on  which  the  schooners  split 

And  founder,  that  would  bear  away 

The  treasure-chest  of  Cut-Throat-Ki.t, 

That's  buried  under  Black  Bill's  bones 

Beneath  the  purple  pepper-tree  .  .  . 

A  trail  of  clean-sucked  cherry-stones, 

Which  you  must  follow  carefully, 

Across  the  dunes  of  yellow  sand 

Leads  winding  upward  from  the  beach 

Till,  with  a  pistol  in  each  hand, 

And  cutlass  'twixt  your  teeth,  you  reach  .  .  . 


494  LIVELIHOOD 

Plumping  their  fat  crops  peacefully 

Were  plovers,  pigeons,  starlings,  rooks, 

Feeding  on  every  side  while  he 

Was  in  the  land  of  storybooks. 

He  raised  his  rattle  with  a  shout 

And  scattered  them  with  yell  and  crake  . 

A  man  must  mind  what  he's  about 

And  keep  his  silly  wits  awake, 

Not  go  woolgathering,  if  he'd  earn 

His  wage.     And  soon,  no  schoolboy  now, 

He'd  take  on  a  man's  job,  and  learn 

To  build  a  rick,  and  drive  the  plough, 

Like  father  .  .  . 

Up  against  the  sky 
Beyond  the  spinney  and  the  stream, 
With  easy  stride  and  steady  eye 
He  saw  his  father  drive  his  team, 
Turning  the  red  marl  gleaming  wet 
Into  long  furrows  clean  and  true. 
And  dreaming  there,  he  longed  to  set 
His  young  hand  to  the  ploughshare  too. 


THE  OLD  PIPER 

With  ears  undulled  of  age,  all  night  he  heard 

The  April  singing  of  the  Otterburn. 

His  wife  slept  quietly  and  never  stirred, 

Though  he  was  restless  and  must  toss  and  turn  — 

But  she  kept  going  all  the  day,  while  he 

Was  just  a  useless  bundle  in  a  chair, 

And  couldn't  do  a  hand's  turn  —  seventy-three, 

And  crippled  with  rheumatics  .  .  . 

It  was  rare, 

Hearing  the  curlew  piping  in  the  dark! 
'Twas  queer  he'd  got  his  hearing  still  so  keen. 
He'd  be  so  bothered  if  he  couldn't  hark 
To  curlew  piping,  shrill  and  clear  and  clean  — 
Ay,  clean,  that  note ! 

His  piping  days  were  done, 
His  fingers  numb  and  stiff.     And  by  the  peat 
All  winter,  or  all  summer  in  the  sun, 
He'd  sit  beside  the  threshold,  in  his  seat, 
Day-long,  and  listen  to  the  Otterburn 
That  sang  each  day  and  night  a  different  tune. 
It  knew  more  airs  than  he  could  ever  learn 
Upon  the  small-pipes.     January  to  June, 
And  June  to  January,  every  hour 
It  changed  its  music.     Now  'twas  shrilling  clear 
In  a  high  tinkling  treble  with  a  power 
Of  mellow  undertones.     And  to  his  ear 
Even  the  spates  of  winter  over  stones 
Made  no  dull  tuneless  thundering;  he  heard 
No  single  roar,  but  half  a  hundred  tones 
Eddying  and  swirling;  blending,  yet  unblurred; 
No  dull-edged  note,  but  each  one  razor-keen  — 
Though  supple  as  the  sword-blades  interlaced 
Over  the  morris-dancers'  heads  —  and  clean ! 
But,  nay,  there  was  no  word  for  it.     'Twas  waste 
Of  breath  to  try  and  put  the  thing  in  words, 
Though  on  his  pipes  he'd  get  the  sense  of  it, 
The  feel  —  ay,  even  of  the  calls  of  birds 
495 


496  LIVELIHOOD 

He'd  get  some  notion,  though  low-toned  a  bit  — 
His  humming  drone  had  not  that  quality 
Of  clean-cut  piping.     Any  shepherd  lad 
Upon  his  penny-whistle  easily 
Could  mimic  the  mere  notes.     And  yet  he  had 
A  gift  of  feeling,  somehow  .  .  .  He  must  try 
To-morrow  if  he  couldn't  tune  his  pipes, 
Must  get  his  wife  to  strap  them  carefully  .  .  . 
Hark,  a  new  note  among  the  birds  —  a  snipe's  — 
A  small-pipe's  note !  .  .  . 

Drowsing,  he  did  not  wake 
Until  his  wife  was  stirring. 

Nor  till  noon 

He  told  her  that  he'd  half-a-mind  to  take 
His  pipes  and  see  if  he  could  turn  a  tune 
If  she  would  fetch  them.     And  regretfully 
She  brought  the  pipes  and  strapped  them  on  and  set 
The  bellows  under  his  arm,  and  patiently 
She  held  the  reeds  to  his  numb  fingers.     Yet 
She  knew  'twas  worse  than  useless.     Work  and  years 
Had  dulled  that  lively  touch:  each  joint  was  stiff 
And  swollen  with  rheumatics  .  .  . 

Slowly  tears 
Ran  down  his  weathered  cheeks  .  .  . 

And  then  a  whiff 

Of  peat-reek  filled  his  nostrils :  and  quite  still 
He  sat  remembering.     Memory  was  kind 
And  stript  age  off  him. 

And  along  the  hill 

By  Golden  Pots  he  strove  against  the  wind  — 
In  all  his  days  he  never  again  had  known 
A  wind  like  thon  —  on  that  November  day. 
For  every  step  that  he  took  forward,  blown 
Half-a-step  backward,  slowly  he  made  way 
Against  it,  buffeted  and  battered  numb; 
Chilled  to  the  marrow,  till  he  reached  his  door, 
To  find  Jack  Dodd,  the  pitman  piper,  come 
To  play  a  contest  with  him  .  .  . 

Nevermore 
There'd  be  such  piping! 

Ay,  Jack  Dodd  had  heard 
That  he  could  play  —  that  up  among  the  hills 
There  was  a  lad  could  pipe  like  any  bird, 
With  half-a-hundred  fancy  turns  and  trills, 


LIVELIHOOD  497 

And  give  a  lead  even  to  Jack  himself, 
Jack  Dodd,  the  pitmen's  champion ! 

After  tea 

When  they  had  smoked  a  while,  down  from  the  shelf 
He'd  reached  his  own  small-pipes;  and  speedily 
They  two  were  at  it,  playing,  tune  for  tune, 
Against  each  other  all  the  winter's  night, 
And  all  next  morning  till  the  stroke  of  noon, 
Piping  out  bravely  all  their  hearts'  delight. 

He  still  could  see  Jack,  sitting  there,  so  lean, 
Long-backed,  broad-shouldered,  stooping  and  white-faced 
With  cropped  black  head,  and  black  eyes  burning  keen; 
Tight-lipped,  yet  smiling  gravely:  round  his  waist 
His  small-pipes  strapped,  the  bellows  'neath  his  arm, 
His  nimble  fingers  lively  at  the  reeds, — 
His  body  swaying  to  the  lilting  charm 
Of  his  own  magic  piping,  till  great  beads 
Of  sweat  were  glistening  on  his  low,  white  brow. 

And  he  himself,  a  herd-lad,  yellow-haired, 
With  wide  eyes  even  bluer  then  than  now, 
Who  sat  bolt-upright  in  his  chair  and  stared 
Before  him  at  the  steady  glowing  peat 
As  though  each  note  he  played  he  caught  in  flight 
From  the  loud  wind,  and  in  the  quivering  heat 
Could  see  it  dancing  to  its  own  delight. 

All  night  the  rafters  hummed  with  piping  airs, 
And  candle  after  candle  guttered  out; 
But  not  a  footstep  climbed  the  creaky  stairs 
To  the  dark  bedrooms.     Turn  and  turn  about, 
They  piped  or  listened;  while  the  wind  without 
Roared  round  the  steading,  battering  at  the  door 
As  though  to  burst  it  wide ;  then  with  a  shout 
Swept  on  across  the  pitchy  leagues  of  moor. 

Pitman  and  shepherd  piping  turn  for  turn, 

The  airs  they  loved,  till  to  the  melody 

Their  pulses  beat;  and  their  rapt  eyes  would  burn 

Thrilled  with  the  sight  that  each  most  loved  to  see  — 

The  pitman,  gazing  down  a  gallery 

Of  glittering  black  coal,  an  endless  seam : 

And  through  his  piping  stole  the  mystery 


498  LIVELIHOOD 

Of  subterranean  waters,  and  of  dream 
Corridors  dwindling  everlastingly. 

The  shepherd,  from  the  top  of  Windy  Gile 

Looking  o'er  range  on  range  of  glowing  hills, 

A  world  beneath  him,  stretching,  mile  on  mile, 

Brown  bent  and  heather,  laced  by  flashing  rills, — 

His  body  flooded  with  the  light  that  fills 

The  veins  with  running  gold.     And  April  light 

And  wind,  and  all  the  melody  that  spills 

From  tumbling  waters,  thrilled  his  pipes  that  night. 

Ay,  thon  was  playing,  thon!     And  nevermore 

The  world  would  hear  such  piping.     Jack  was  dead, 

And  he,  so  old  and  broken. 

By  the  door 

All  day  he  sat  remembering;  and  in  bed 
He  lay  beside  his  sleeping  wife  all  night, 
Too  spent,  too  weary,  even  to  toss  and  turn. 
Dawn  found  him  lying,  strangely  cold  and  white, 
As  though  still  listening  to  the  Otterburn. 


THE  NEWS 

The  buzzer  boomed,  and  instantly  the  clang 

Of  hammers  dropt,  just  as  the  fendered  bow 

Bumped  with  soft  splash  against  the  wharf, —  though  now 

Again  within  the  Yard  a  hammer  rang  — 

A  solitary  hammer  striking  steel 

Somewhere  aloft  —  and  strangely,  stridently 

Echoed  as  though  it  struck  the  steely  sky 

The  low,  cold,  steely  sky. 

She  seemed  to  feel 

That  hammer  in  her  heart  —  blow  after  blow 
In  a  strange  clanging  hollow  seemed  to  strike 
Monotonous,  unrelenting,  cruel-like  — 
Her  heart  that  such  a  little  while  ago 
Had  been  so  full,  so  happy  with  its  news  , 

Scarce  uttered  even  to  itself. 

It  stopt, 

That  dreadful  hammer.     And  the  silence  dropt 
Again  a  moment.     Then  a  clatter  of  shoes 
And  murmur  of  voices  as  the  men  trooped  out : 
And  as  each  wife  with  basket  and  hot  can 
Hurried  towards  the  gate  to  meet  her  man, 
She  too  ran  forward,  and  then  stood  in  doubt 
Because  among  them  all  she  could  not  see 
The  face  that  usually  was  first  of  all 
To  meet  her  eyes. 

Against  the  grimy  wall 
That  towered  black  above  her  to  the  sky, 
With  trembling  knuckles  to  the  cold  stone  pressed 
Till  the  grit  seemed  to  eat  into  the  bone, 
And  her  stretched  arm  to  shake  the  solid  stone, 
She  stood,  and  strove  to  calm  her  troubled  breast  — 
Her  breast,  whose  trouble  of  strange  happiness 
So  sweet  and  so  miraculous,  as  she 
Had  stood  among  the  chattering  company 
Upon  the  ferry-boat,  to  strange  distress 
Was  changed.     An  unknown  terror  seemed  to  lie 
499 


500  LIVELIHOOD 

For  her,  behind  that  wall,  so  cold  and  hard 
And  black  above  her,  in  the  unseen  Yard, 
Dreadfully  quiet  now.     Then  with  a  sigh 
Of  glad  relief  she  ran  towards  the  gate 
As  he  came  slowly  out,  the  last  of  all. 

The  terror  of  the  hammer  and  the  wall 

Fell  from  her  as,  a  woman  to  her  mate, 

She  moved  with  happy  heart  and  smile  of  greeting  — 

A  young  and  happy  wife  whose  only  thought 

Was  whether  he  would  like  the  food  she'd  brought  — 

Whose  one  desire,  to  watch  her  husband  eating. 

With  a  grave  smile  he  took  his  bait  from  her, 

And  then  without  a  word  they  moved  away 

To  where  some  grimy  baulks  of  timber  lay 

Beside  the  river,  and  'twas  quieter 

Than  in  the  crowd  of  munching,  squatting  men 

And  chattering  wives  and  children.     As  he  eat 

With  absent  eyes  upon  the  river  set, 

She  chattered,  too,  a  little  now  and  then 

Of  household  happenings:  and  then  silently 

They  sat  and  watched  the  grimy-flowing  stream, 

Dazed  by  the  stunning  din  of  hissing  steam 

Escaping  from  an  anchored  boat  hard-by, 

Each  busy  with  their  own  thoughts,  who  till  now 

Had  shared  each  thought,  each  feeling,  speaking  out 

Easily,  eagerly,  without  a  doubt, 

As  happy  innocent  children,  anyhow, 

The  innermost  secrets  of  their  wedded  life. 

So  as  the  dinner  hour  went  swiftly  by 

They  sat  there  for  the  first  time,  troubled,  shy  — 

A  silent  husband  and  a  silent  wife. 

But  she  was  only  troubled  by  excess 

Of  happiness ;  and  as  she  watched  the  stream, 

She  looked  upon  her  life  as  in  a  dream, 

Recalling  all  its  tale  of  happiness 

Unbroken  and  unshadowed  since  she'd  met 

Her  man  the  first  time,  eighteen  months  ago  .  .  . 

A  keen  blue  day  with  sudden  flaws  of  snow 
And  sudden  sunshine,  when  she  first  had  set 
Her  wondering  eyes  upon  him  —  gaily  clad 


LIVELIHOOD  501 

For  football  in  a  jersey  green  and  red, 
Knees  bare  beneath  white  shorts,  his  curly  head 
Wind-blown  and  wet, —  and  knew  him  for  her  lad. 

He  strode  towards  her  down  the  windy  street  — 
The  wet  grey  pavements  flashing  sudden  gold, 
And  gold  the  unending  coils  of  smoke  that  rolled 
Unceasingly  overhead,  fired  by  a  fleet 
Wild  glint  of  glancing  sunlight.     On  he  came 
Beside  her  brother  —  still  a  raw  uncouth 
Young  hobbledehoy  —  a  strapping  mettled  youth 
In  the  first  pride  of  manhood,  that  wild  flame 
Touching  his  hair  to  fire,  his  cheeks  aglow 
With  the  sharp  stinging  wind,  his  arms  aswing: 
And  as  she  watched,  she  felt  the  tingling  sting 
Of  flying  flakes,  and  in  a  whirl  of  snow 
A  moment  he  was  hidden  from  her  sight. 
It  passed,  and  then  before  she  was  aware, 
With  white  flakes  powdering  his  ruddy  hair 
He  stood  before  her,  laughing  in  the  light, 
In  all  his  bravery  of  red  and  green 
Snow-sprinkled ;  and  she  laughed,  too.     In  the  sun 
They  laughed :  and  in  that  laughter  they  were  one. 

Now  as  with  kindled  eyes  on  the  unseen 

Grey  river  she  sat  gazing,  she  again 

Lived  through  that  moment  in  a  golden  dream  .  .  . 

And  then  quite  suddenly  she  saw  the  stream 

Distinct  in  its  cold  grimy  flowing;  then 

The  present  with  its  deeper  happiness 

Thrilled  her  afresh  —  this  wonder  strange  and  new  — 

This  dream  in  her  young  body  coming  true, 

Incredible,  yet  certain  none-the-less  — 

This  news,  scarce  broken  to  herself,  that  she 

Must  break  to  him.     She  longed  to  see  his  eyes 

Kindle  to  hear  it,  happy  with  surprise 

When  she  should  break  it  to  him  presently. 

But  she  must  wait  a  while  yet.     Still  too  strange, 
Too  wonderful  for  words,  she  could  not  share 
Even  with  him  her  secret.     He  sat  there 
So  quietly,  little  dreaming  of  the  change 
That  had  come  over  her  —  but  when  he  knew ! 
For  he  was  always  one  for  bairns,  was  John, 


502  LIVELIHOOD 

And  this  would  be  his  own,  their  own.     There  shone 
A  strange  new  light  on  all  since  this  was  true, 
All,  all  seemed  strange,  the  river  and  the  shore, 
The  barges  and  the  wharves  with  timber  piled, 
And  all  her  world  familiar  from  a  child, 
Was  as  a  world  she'd  never  seen  before. 

And  he,  too,  sat  with  eyes  upon  the  stream 
Remembering  that  day  when  first  the  light 
Of  her  young  eyes  with  laughter  sparkling  bright 
Kindled  to  his;  and  as  he  caught  the  gleam 
The  life  within  him  quickened  suddenly 
To  fire,  and  in  a  world  of  golden  laughter 
They  stood  alone  together:  and  then  after, 
When  he  was  playing  with  his  mates  and  he 
Hurtled  headlong  towards  the  goal,  he  knew 
Her  eyes  were  on  him ;  and  for  her  alone, 
Who  had  the  merriest  eyes  he'd  ever  known, 
He  played  that  afternoon.     Though  until  then 
He'd  only  played  to  please  himself,  somehow 
She  seemed  to  have  a  hold  upon  him,  now. 
No  longer  a  boy,  a  man  among  grown  men, 
He'd  never  have  a  thought  apart  from  her, 
From  her,  his  mate  .  .  . 

And  then  that  golden  night 
When  in  a  whirl  of  melody  and  light, 
Her  merry  brown  eyes  flashing  merrier, 
They  rode  together  in  a  gilded  car 
That  seemed  to  roll  for  ever  round  and  round 
In  a  blind  blaze  of  light  and  blare  of  sound,  . 
For  ever  and  for  ever,  till  afar 
It  seemed  to  bear  them  from  the  surging  throng 
Of  lads  and  lasses  happy  in  release 
From  the  week's  work  in  yards  and  factories  — 
For  ever  through  a  land  of  light  and  song 
While  they  sat,  rapt  in  silence,  hand  in  hand, 
And  looked  into  each  other's  merry  eyes, 
They  two,  together,  whirled  through  Paradise, 
A  golden  glittering,  unearthly  land, 
A  land  where  light  and  melody  were  one, 
And  melody  and  light,  a  golden  fire 
That  ran  through  their  young  bodies,  and  desire, 
A  golden  music  streaming  from  the  sun, 
Filling  their  veins  with  golden  melody 


LIVELIHOOD  503 

And  singing  fire  .  .  . 

And  then  when  quiet  fell, 
And  they  together,  with  so  much  to  tell, 
So  much  to  tell  each  other  instantly, 
Left  the  hot  throng  and  roar  and  glare  behind, 
Seeking  the  darker  streets,  and  stood  at  last 
In  a  dark  lane  where  footsteps  seldom  passed, 
Lit  by  a  far  lamp  and  one  glowing  blind 
That  seemed  to  make  the  darkness  yet  more  dark 
Between  the  cliffs  of  houses,  black  and  high, 
That  soared  above  them  to  the  starry  sky, 
A  deep  blue  sky  where  spark  on  fiery  spark 
The  stars  for  them  were  kindled,  as  they  raised 
Their  eyes  in  new-born  wonder  to  the  night: 
And  in  a  solitude  of  cold  starlight 
They  stood  alone  together,  hushed,  and  gazed 
Into  each  other's  eyes  until  speech  came : 
And  underneath  the  stars  they  talked  and  talked  .  .  . 

Then  he  remembered  how  they  two  had  walked 

Along  a  beach  that  was  one  golden  flame 

Of  yellow  sand  beside  a  flame-blue  sea 

The  day  they  wedded,  that  strange  day  of  dream, 

One  flame  of  blue  and  gold  .  .  . 

The  murky  stream 

Flowed  once  again  before  his  eyes,  and  he 
Dropt  back  into  the  present;  and  he  knew 
That  he  must  break  the  news  that  suddenly 
Had  come  to  him  last  night  as  drowsily 
He  lay  beside  her  —  startling,  stern  and  true 
Out  of  the  darkness  flashing.     He  must  tell 
How,  as  he  lay  beside  her  in  the  night 
His  heart  had  told  him  he  must  go  and  fight, 
Must  throw  up  everything  he  loved  so  well 
To  go  and  fight  in  lands  across  the  sea 
Beside  the  other  lads  —  must  throw  up  all, 
His  work,  his  home  .  .  . 

The  shadow  of  the  wall 
Fell  on  her  once  again,  and  stridently 
That  hammer  struck  her  heart,  as  from  the  stream 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  saw  their  flame. — 
Then  back  into  her  heart  her  glad  news  came 
As  John  smiled  on  her ;  and  her  golden  dream 
Once  more  was  all  about  her  as  she  thought 


504  LIVELIHOOD 

Of  home,  the  new  home  that  the  future  held 
For  them  —  they  three  together.     Fear  was  quelled 
By  this  new  happiness  that  all  unsought 
Had  sprung  from  the  old  happiness  .  .  . 

And  he 

Watching  her,  thought  of  home,  too.     When  he  stept 
With  her  across  the  threshold  first,  and  slept 
That  first  night  in  her  arms  so  quietly, 
For  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  he'd  known 
All  that  home  meant,  or  nearly  all  —  for  yet 
Each  night  brought  him  new  knowledge  as  she  met 
Him,  smiling  on  the  clean  white  threshold-stone 
When  he  returned  from  labour  in  the  Yard  .  .  . 

And  she'd  be  waiting  for  him  soon,  while  he 
W^as  fighting  with  his  fellows  oversea  — 
She  would  be  waiting  for  him  .  .  . 

It  was  hard 

For  him  that  he  must  go,  as  go  he  must, 
But  harder  far  for  her:  things  always  fell 
Harder  upon  the  women.     It  was  well 
She  didn't  dream  yet  ...  He  could  only  trust 
She,  too,  would  feel  that  he  had  got  to  go, 
Then  'twould  not  be  so  hard  to  go,  and  yet  .  .  . 
Dreaming,  he  saw  the  lamplit  table,  set 
With  silver  pot  and  cups  and  plates  aglow 
For  tea  in  their  own  kitchen  bright  and  snug, 
With  her  behind  the  tea-pot  —  saw  it  all, 
The  coloured  calendars  upon  the  wall, 
The  bright  fire-irons,  and  the  gay  hearthrug 
She'd  made  herself  from  gaudy  rags;  his  place 
Awaiting  him,  with  something  hot-and-hot  — 
His  favourite  sausages  as  like  as  not, 
Between  two  plates  for  him  —  as,  with  clean  face 
Glowing  from  washing  in  the  scullery, 
And  such  a  hunger  on  him,  he  would  sink 
Content  into  his  chair  .  .  . 

'Twa^strange  to  think 
All  this  was  over,  and  so-  suddenly, — 
'Twas  strange,  and  hard  .  .  . 

Still  gazing  on  the  stream, 

Her  thoughts,  too,  were  at  home.     She  heard  the  patter 
Of  tiny  feet  beside  her,  and  the  chatter 
Of  little  tongues  .  .  . 


LIVELIHOOD  505 

Then  loudly  through  their  dream 
The  buzzer  boomed :  and  all  about  them  rose 
The  men  and  women :  soon  the  wives  were  on 
The  ferry-boat,  now  puffing  to  be  gone : 
The  husbands  hurrying,  ere  the  gates  should  close, 
Back  to  the  Yard  .  .  . 

She,  in  her  dream  of  gold, 
And  he,  in  his  new  desolation,  stood ; 
Then  soberly,  as  wife  and  husband  should, 
They  parted,  with  their  news  as  yet  untold. 


DAFFODILS 

He  liked  the  daffodils.     He  liked  to  see 
Them  nodding  in  the  hedgerows  cheerily 
Along  the  dusty  lanes  as  he  went  by  — 
Nodding  and  laughing  to  a  fellow  —  Ay, 
Nodding  and  laughing  till  you'd  almost  think 
They,  too,  enjoyed  the  jest. 

Without  a  wink 

That  solemn  butler  said  it,  calm  and  smug, 
Deep- voiced  as  though  he  talked  into  a  jug: 
"  His  lordship  says  he  won't  require  no  more 
Crocks  rivetted  or  mended  till  the  war 
Is  over." 

Lord !     He'd  asked  to  have  a  wire 
The  moment  that  his  lordship  should  desire 
To  celebrate  the  occasion  fittingly 
By  a  wild  burst  of  mending  crockery 
Like  a  true  Englishman,  and  hang  expense! 
He'd  had  to  ask  it,  though  he'd  too  much  sense 
To  lift  a  lash  or  breathe  a  word  before 
His  lordship's  lordship  closed  the  heavy  door. 
And  then  he'd  laughed.     Lord !  but  it  did  him  good 
That  quiet  laugh.     And  somewhere  in  the  wood 
Behind  the  Hall  there,  a  woodpecker  laughed 
Right  out  aloud  as  though  he'd  gone  clean  daft  — 
Right  out  aloud  he  laughed,  the  brazen  bird, 
As  if  he  didn't  care  a  straw  who  heard  — 
But  then  he'd  not  his  daily  bread  to  earn 
By  mending  crocks. 

And  now  at  every  turn 
The  daffodils  are  laughing  quietly 
Nodding  and  laughing  to  themselves,  as  he 
Chuckled:     Now  there's  a  patriot,  real  true-blue! 

It  seemed  the  daffodils  enjoyed  it  too  — 
The  fun  of  it.     He  wished  that  he  could  see  — 
Old  solemn-mug  —  them  laughing  quietly 
At  him.     But  then,  he'd  never  have  a  dim 
506 


LIVELIHOOD  507 

Idea  they  laughed,  and,  least  of  all,  at  him. 
He'd  never  dream  they  could  be  laughing  at 
A  butler. 

'Twould  be  good  to  see  the  fat 
Old  peach-cheek  in  his  solemn  black  and  starch 
Parading  in  his  pompous  parlour-march 
Across  that  field  of  laughing  daffodils. 
'Xwould  be  a  sight  to  make  you  skip  up  hills, 
Ay,  crutch  and  all,  and  never  feel  your  pack, 
To  see  a  butler  in  his  starch  and  black 
Among  the  daffodils,  ridiculous 
As  that  old  bubbly-jock  with  strut  and  fuss  — 
Though  that  was  rather  rough  upon  the  bird ! 
For  all  his  pride,  he  didn't  look  absurd 
Among  the  flowers  —  nor  even  that  black  sow 
Grunting  and  grubbing  in  among  them  now. 

And  he  was  glad  he  hadn't  got  a  trade 

That  starched  the  mother-wit  in  you,  and  made 

A  man  look  silly  in  a  field  of  flowers. 

'Twas  better  mending  crocks,  although  for  hours 

You  hobbled  on  —  ay !  and,  maybe  for  days  — 

Hungry  and  cold  along  the  muddy  ways 

Without  a  job.     And  even  when  the  sun 

Was  shining,  'twas  not  altogether  fun 

To  lose  the  chance  of  earning  a  few  pence 

In  these  days :  though  'twas  well  he'd  got  the  sense 

To  see  the  funny  side  of  things.     It  cost 

You  nothing,  laughing  to  yourself.     You  lost 

Far  more  by  going  fiddle-faced  through  life 

Looking  for  trouble. 

He  would  tell  his  wife 

When  he  got  home.     But  lord,  she'd  never  see 
What  tickled  him  so  mightily,  not  she ! 
She'd  only  look  up  puzzled-like,  and  say 
She  didn't  wonder  at  his  lordship.     Nay, 
With  tripe  and  trotters  at  the  price  they  were 
You'd  got  to  count  your  coppers  and  take  care 
Of  every  farthing. 

Jack  would  see  the  fun  — 

Ay,  Jack  would  see  the  joke.     Jack  was  his  son  — 
The  youngest  of  the  lot.     And,  man-alive, 
'Twas  queer  that  only  one  of  all  the  five 
Had  got  a  twinkle  in  him  —  all  the  rest 


508  LIVELIHOOD 

Dull  as  ditchwater  to  the  merriest  jest. 

Good  lads  enough  they  were,  their  mother's  sons ; 

And  they'd  all  pluck  enough  to  face  the  guns 

Out  at  the  front.     They'd  got  their  mother's  pluck : 

And  he  was  proud  of  them,  and  wished  them  luck. 

That  was  no  laughing  matter  —  though  'twas  well 

Maybe  if  you  could  crack  a  joke  in  hell 

And  shame  the  devil.     Jack,  at  least,  would  fight 

As  well  as  any  though  his  heart  was  light. 

Jack  was  the  boy  for  fighting  and  for  fun ; 

And  he  was  glad  to  think  he'd  got  a  son 

Who,  even  facing  bloody  death,  would  see 

That  little  joke  about  the  crockery, 

And  chuckle  as  he  charged. 

His  thoughts  dropped  back 
Through  eighteen  years ;  and  he  again  saw  Jack 
At  the  old  home  beneath  the  Malvern  hills, 
A  little  fellow  plucking  daffodils, 
A  little  fellow  who  could  scarcely  walk, 
Yet  chuckling  as  he  snapped  each  juicy  stalk 
And  held  up  every  yellow  bloom  to  smell, 
Poking  his  tiny  nose  into  the  bell 
And  sniffing  the  fresh  scent,  and  chuckling  still 
As  though  he'd  secrets  with  each  daffodil. 
Ay,  he  could  see  again  the  little  fellow 
In  his  blue  frock  among  that  laughing  yellow, 
And  plovers  in  their  sheeny  black  and  white 
Flirting  and  tumbling  in  the  morning  light 
About  his  curly  head.     He  still  could  see, 
Shutting  his  eyes,  as  plain  as  plain  could  be, 
Drift  upon  drift,  those  long-dead  daffodils 
Against  the  far  green  of  the  Malvern  hills, 
Nodding  and  laughing  round  his  little  lad, 
As  if  to  see  him  happy  made  them  glad  — 
Nodding  and  laughing  .  .  . 

They  were  nodding  now, 
The  daffodils,  and  laughing  —  yet,  somehow, 
They  didn't  seem  so  merry  now  .  .  . 

And  he 

Was  fighting  in  a  bloody  trench  maybe 
For  very  life  this  minute  .  .  . 

They  missed  Jack, 
And  he  would  give  them  all  to  have  him  back. 


BETWEEN  THE  LINES 

When  consciousness  came  back,  he  found  he  lay 

Between  the  opposing  fires,  but  could  not  tell 

On  which  hand  were  his  friends ;  and  either  way 

For  him  to  turn  was  chancy  —  bullet  and  shell    . 

Whistling  and  shrieking  over  him,  as  the  glare 

Of  searchlights  scoured  the  darkness  to  blind  day. 

He  scrambled  to  his  hands  and  knees  ascare, 

Dragging  his  wounded  foot  through  puddled  clay, 

And  tumbled  in  a  hole  a  shell  had  scooped 

At  random  in  a  turnip-field  between 

The  unseen  trenches  where  the  foes  lay  cooped 

Through  that  unending  battle  of  unseen 

Dead-locked  league-stretching  armies;  and  quite  spent 

He  rolled  upon  his  back  within  the  pit, 

And  lay  secure,  thinking  of  all  it  meant  — 

His  lying  in  that  little  hole,  sore  hit, 

But  living,  while  across  the  starry  sky 

Shrapnel  and  shell  went  screeching  overhead  — 

Of  all  it  meant  that  he,  Tom  Dodd,  should  lie 

Among  the  Belgian  turnips,  while  his  bed  .  .  . 

If  it  were  he,  indeed,  who'd  climbed  each  night, 
Fagged  with  the  day's  work,  up  the  narrow  stair, 
And  slipt  his  clothes  off  in  the  candle-light, 
Too  tired  to  fold  them  neatly  on  a  chair 
The  way  his  mother'd  taught  him  —  too  dog-tired 
After  the  long  day's  serving  in  the  shop, 
Inquiring  what  each  customer  required, 
Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop  .  .  . 

And  now  for  fourteen  days  and  nights,  at  least, 
He  hadn't  had  his  clothes  off;  and  had  lain 
In  muddy  trenches,  napping  like  a  beast 
With  one  eye  open,  under  sun  and  rain 
And  that  unceasing  hell-fire  .  .  . 

It  was  strange 

How  things  turned  out  —  the  chances!     You'd  just  got 
509 


510  LIVELIHOOD 

To  take  your  luck  in  life,  you  couldn't  change 
Your  luck. 

And  so  here  he  was  lying  shot 
Who  just  six  months  ago  had  thought  to  spend 
His  days  behind  a  counter.     Still,  perhaps  .  .  . 
And  now,  God  only  knew  how  he  would  end ! 

He'd  like  to  know  how  many  of  the  chaps 
Had  won  back  to  the  trench  alive,  when  he 
Had  fallen  wounded  and  been  left  for  dead, 
If  any!  .  .  . 

This  was  different,  certainly, 
From  selling  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread 
And  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread  and  knots 
Of  tape  and  reels  of  thread  and  knots  of  tape, 
Day  in,  day  out,  and  answering  "  Have  you  got's  " 
And  "  Do  you  keep's,"  till  there  seemed  no  escape 
From  everlasting  serving  in  a  shop, 
Inquiring  what  each  customer  required, 
Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop, 
With  swollen  ankles,  tired  .  .  . 

But  he  was  tired 

Now.     Every  bone  was  aching,  and  had  ached 
For  fourteen  days  and  nights  in  that  wet  trench  — 
Just  duller  when  he  slept  than  when  he  waked  — 
Crouching  for  shelter  from  the  steady  drench 
Of  shell  and  shrapnel  .  .  . 

That  old  trench,  it  seemed 
Almost  like  home  to  him.     He'd  slept  and  fed 
And  sung  and  smoked  in  it,  while  shrapnel  screamed 
And  shells  went  whining  harmless  overhead  — 
Harmless,  at  least,  as  far  as  he  ... 

But  Dick  — 

Dick  hadn't  found  them  harmless  yesterday, 
At  breakfast,  when  he'd  said  he  couldn't  stick 
Eating  dry  bread,  and  crawled  out  the  back  way, 
And  brought  them  butter  in  a  lordly  dish  — 
Butter  enough  for  all,  and  held  it  high, 
Yellow  and  fresh  and  clean  as  you  could  wish  — 
When  plump  upon  the  plate  from  out  the  sky 
A  shell  fell  bursting  .  .  .  Where  the  butter  went, 
God  only  knew!  .  .  . 

And  Dick  ...  He  dared  not  think 
Of  what  had  come  to  Dick  ...  or  what  it  meant  — 


LIVELIHOOD  511 

The  shrieking  and  the  whistling  and  the  stink 

He'd  lived  in  fourteen  days  and  nights.     'Twas  luck 

That  he  still  lived  .  .  .  And  queer  how  little  then 

He  seemed  to  care  that  Dick  .  .  .  Perhaps  'twas  pluck 

That  hardened  him  —  a  man  among  the  men  — 

Perhaps  .  .  .  Yet,  only  think  things  out  a  bit, 

And  he  was  rabbit-livered,  blue  with  funk ! 

And  he'd  liked  Dick  .  .  .  and  yet  when  Dick  was  hit, 

He  hadn't  turned  a  hair.     The  meanest  skunk 

He  should  have  thought  would  feel  it  when  his  mate 

Was  blown  to  smithereens  —  Dick,  proud  as  punch, 

Grinning  like  sin,  and  holding  up  the  plate  — 

But  he  had  gone  on  munching  his  dry  hunch, 

Unwinking,  till  he  swallowed  the  last  crumb. 

Perhaps  'twas  just  because  he  dared  not  let 
His  mind  run  upon  Dick,  who'd  been  his  chum. 
He  dared  not  now,  though  he  could  not  forget. 

Dick  took  his  luck.     And,  life  or  death,  'twas  luck 
From  first  to  last;  and  you'd  just  got  to  trust 
Your  luck  and  grin.     It  wasn't  so  much  pluck 
As  knowing  that  you'd  got  to,  when  needs  must, 
And  better  to  die  grinning  .  .  . 

Quiet  now 

Had  fallen  on  the  night.     On  either  hand 
The  guns  were  quiet.     Cool  upon  his  brow 
The  quiet  darkness  brooded,  as  he  scanned 
The  starry  sky.     He'd  never  seen  before 
So  many  stars.     Although,  of  course,  he'd  known 
That  there  were  stars,  somehow  before  the  war 
He'd  never  realised  them  —  so  thick-sown, 
Millions  and  millions.     Serving  in  the  shop, 
Stars  didn't  count  for  much ;  and  then  at  nights 
Strolling  the  pavements,  dull  and  fit  to  drop, 
You  didn't  see  much  but  the  city  lights. 
He'd  never  in  his  life  seen  so  much  sky 
As  he'd  seen  this  last  fortnight.     It  was  queer 
The  things  war  taught  you.     He'd  a  mind  to  try 
To  count  the  stars  —  they  shone  so  bright  and  clear. 
One,  two,  three,  four  .  .  .  Ah,  God,  but  he  was  tired  .  .  . 
Five,  six,  seven,  eight  .  .  . 

Yes:  it  was  number  eight. 
And  what  was  the  next  thing  that  she  required  ? 


5i2  LIVELIHOOD 

(Too  bad  of  customers  to  come  so  late, 
At  closing-time!)      Again  within  the  shop 
He  handled  knots  of  tape  and  reels  of  thread, 
Politely  talking  weather,  fit  to  drop  .  .  . 

When  once  again  the  whole  sky  overhead 
Flared  blind  with  searchlights,  and  the  shriek  of  shell 
And  scream  of  shrapnel  roused  him.     Drowsily 
He  stared  about  him  wondering.     Then  he  fell 
Into  deep  dreamless  slumber. 


He  could  see 

Two  dark  eyes  peeping  at  him,  ere  he  knew 
He  was  awake,  and  it  again  was  day  — 
An  August  morning  burning  to  clear  blue. 
The  frightened  rabbit  scuttled  .  .  . 

Far  away, 

A  sound  of  firing  .  .  .  Up  there,  in  the  sky 
Big  dragon-flies  hung  hovering  .  .  .  Snowballs  burst 
About  them  .  .  . 

Flies  and  snowballs !     With  a  cry 
He  crouched  to  watch  the  airmen  pass  —  the  first 
That  he'd  seen  under  fire.     Lord,  that  was  pluck  — 
Shells  bursting  all  about  them  —  and  what  nerve ! 
They  took  their  chance,  and  trusted  to  their  luck. 
At  such  a  dizzy  height  to  dip  and  swerve, 
Dodging  the  shell-fire  .  .  . 

Hell !  but  one  was  hit, 
And  tumbling  like  a  pigeon,  plump  .  .  . 

Thank  Heaven, 

It  righted,  and  then  turned ;  and  after  it 
The  whole  flock  followed  safe  —  four,  five,  six,  seven, 
Yes,  they  were  all  there  safe.     He  hoped  they'd  win 
•  Back  to  their  lines  in  safety.     They  deserved, 
Even  if  they  were  Germans  .  .  .  'Twas  no  sin 
To  wish  them  luck.     Think  how  that  beggar  swerved 
Just  in  the  nick  of  time ! 

He,  too,  must  try 

To  win  back  to  the  lines,  though,  likely  as  not, 
He'd  take  the  wrong  turn :  but  he  couldn't  lie 
For  ever  in  that  hungry  hole  and  rot. 
He'd  got  to  take  his  luck,  to  take  his  chance 


LIVELIHOOD  513 

Of  being  sniped  by  foe  or  friend.     He'd  be 
With  any  luck  in  Germany  or  France 
Or  kingdom-come,  next  morning  .  .  . 

Drearily 

The  blazing  day  burnt  over  him,  shot  and  shell 
Whistling  and  whining  ceaselessly.     But  light 
Faded  at  last,  and  as  the  darkness  fell 
He  rose,  and  crawled  away  into  the  night. 


STRAWBERRIES 

Since  four  she  had  been  plucking  strawberries : 
And  it  was  only  eight  now;  and  the  sun 
Already  blazing.     There'd  be  little  ease 
For  her  until  the  endless  day  was  done  .  .  . 

Yet,  why  should  she  have  any  ease,  while  he  — 
While  he  ... 

But  there,  she  mustn't  think  of  him, 
Fighting  beneath  that  burning  sun,  maybe, — 
His  rifle  nigh  red-hot,  and  every  limb 
Aching  for  sleep,  the  sweat  dried  on  his  brow, 
And  baking  in  the  blaze,  and  such  a  thirst, 
Prickly  and  choking,  she  could  feel  it  now 
In  her  own  throat.     He'd  said  it  was  the  worst, 
In  his  last  letter,  worst  of  all  to  bear, 
That  burning  thirst  —  that,  and  the  hellish  noise  .  . 

And  she  was  plucking  strawberries :  and  there 
In  the  cool  shadow  of  the  elm  their  boys, 
Their  baby-boys,  were  sleeping  quietly  .  .  . 

But  she  was  aching  too :  her  head  and  back 
Were  one  hot  blinding  ache ;  and  dizzily 
Sometimes  across  her  eyes  the  light  swam  black 
With  dancing  spots  of  red  .  .  . 

So  ripe  and  sweet 

Among  their  fresh  green  leaves  the  strawberries  lay, 
Although  the  earth  was  baking  in  the  heat, 
Burning  her  soles  —  and  yet  the  summer  day 
Was  young  enough ! 

If  she  could  only  cram 
A  handful  of  fresh  berries  sweet  and  cool 
Into  his  mouth,  while  he  ... 

A  red  light  swam 
Before  her  eyes  .  .  . 

She  mustn't  think,  poor  fool, 
What  he'd  be  doing  now,  or  she'd  go  crazed  .  .  . 
514 


LIVELIHOOD  515 

Then  what  would  happen  to  them  left  alone  — 
The  little  lads! 

And  he  would  be  fair  mazed, 
When  he  came  back,  to  see  how  they  had  grown, 
William  and  Dick,  and  how  they  talked.     Two  year, 
Since  he  had  gone  —  and  he  had  never  set 
His  eyes  upon  his  youngest  son.     'Twas  queer 
To  think  he  hadn't  seen  his  baby  yet, — 
And  it  nigh  fourteen  months  old. 

Everything 

Was  queer  in  these  days.     She  could  never  guess 
How  it  had  come  about  that  he  could  bring 
Himself  to  go  and  fight.     'Twas  little  less 
Than  murder  to  have  taken  him,  and  he 
So  mild  and  easy-tempered,  never  one 
For  drink  or  picking  quarrels  hastily  .  .  . 
And  now  he  would  be  fighting  in  that  sun  .  .  . 
'Twas  quite  beyond  her.     Yet,  somehow,  it  seemed 
He'd  got  to  go.     She  couldn't  understand  .  .  . 
When  they  had  married,  little  had  they  dreamed 
What  things  were  coming  to !     In  all  the  land 
There  was  no  gentler  husband  .  .  . 

It  was  queer: 

She  couldn't  get  the  rights  of  it,  no  way. 
She  thought  and  thought,  but  couldn't  get  it  clear 
Why  he'd  to  leave  his  own  work  —  making  hay 
'Twould  be  this  weather  —  leave  his  home,  and  all  — 
His  wife  and  his  young  family,  and  go 
To  fight  in  foreign  lands,  and  maybe  fall, 
Fighting  another  lad  he  didn't  know, 
And  had  no  quarrel  with  .  .  . 

The  world  was  mad, 
Or  she  was  going  crazy.     Anyhow 
She  couldn't  see  the  rights  of  it  ...  Her  lad 
Had  thought  it  right  to  go,  she  knew  .  .  . 

But  now 

She  mustn't  think  about  it  all  ...  And  so 
She'd  best  stop  puzzling,  and  pluck  strawberries  .  .  . 

And  every  woman  plucking  in  the  row 
Had  husband,  son,  or  brother  overseas. 

Men  seemed  to  see  things  differently:  and  still 
She  wondered  sore  if  even  they  knew  why 


5i6  LIVELIHOOD 

They  went  themselves,  almost  against  their  will 

But  sure  enough,  that  was  her  baby's  cry. 
'Twas  feeding  time :  and  she'd  be  glad  to  rest 
Her  back  a  bit.     It  always  gave  her  ease, 
To  feel  her  baby  feeding  at  her  breast, 
And  pluck  to  go  on  gathering  strawberries. 


THE  BLAST-FURNACE 

And  such  a  night!     But  maybe  in  that  mood 
'Twas  for  the  best ;  for  he  was  like  to  brood  — 
And  he  could  hardly  brood  on  such  a  night 
With  that  squall  blowing,  on  this  dizzy  height 
Where  he  caught  every  breath  of  it  —  the  snow 
Stinging  his  cheek,  and  melting  in  the  glow 
Above  the  furnace,  big  white  flakes  that  fell 
Sizzling  upon  the  red-hot  furnace  bell : 
And  the  sea  roaring,  down  there  in  the  dark, 
So  loud  to-night  he  needn't  stop  to  hark  — 
Four  hundred  feet  below  where  now  he  stood. 
A  lively  place  to  earn  a  livelihood  — 
His  livelihood,  his  mother's,  and  the  three 
Young  sisters',  quite  a  little  family 
Depending  on  him  now  —  on  him,  Jim  Burn, 
Just  nineteen  past  —  to  work  for  them,  and  earn 
Money  enough  to  buy  them  daily  bread 
Already  .  .  . 

And  his  father  on  the  bed 
At  home  .  .  .  gey  sudden  .  .  . 

Nay,  he  mustn't  think: 
But  shove  his  trolley  to  the  furnace  brink, 
And  tip  his  load  upon  the  glowing  bell, 
Then  back  again  towards  the  hoist.     'Twas  well 
He'd  work  to  stop  him  thinking.     He  was  glad 
His  mate  to-night  was  not  a  talky  lad  — 
But  Peter,  mum-glum  Peter,  who  would  stare 
With  such  queer  sulky  looks  upon  the  flare 
When  round  the  dipping  bell  it  shot  up  high 
With  roar  and  flourish  into  that  black  sky. 
He  liked  to  hear  it  roaring,  liked  to  see 
The  great  flame  leaping  skyward  suddenly, 
Then  sinking  slowly,  as  the  bell  rose  up 
And  covered  it  again  with  red-hot  cup, 
When  it  would  feed  more  quiet  for  a  time 
Upon  the  meal  of  ironstone  and  lime 
He'd  fetched  it  in  his  trolley  .  .  . 


5i8  LIVELIHOOD 

Ay,  and  he, 

Trundling  his  truck  along  that  gallery 
High  in  the  air  all  night  to  keep  it  fed  — 
And  all  the  while  his  father  lying  dead 
At  home  —  to  earn  a  livelihood.     'Twas  strange 
To  think  what  it  all  meant  to  him  —  the  change  .  . 

And  strange  he'd  never  thought  before  how  queer 

It  was  for  him,  earning  his  bread  up  here 

On  this  blast-furnace,  perched  on  the  cliff-top  — 

Four  hundred  feet  or  so,  a  dizzy  drop, 

And  he'd  be  feeding  fishes  in  the  sea ! 

How  loud  it  roared  to-night,  and  angrily  — 

He  liked  to  hear  it  breaking  on  the  shore, 

And  the  wind's  threshing,  and  the  furnace'  roar : 

And  then  the  sudden  quiet,  a  dead  lull, 

When  you  could  only  hear  a  frightened  gull 

Screeching  down  in  the  darkness  there  below, 

Or  a  dog's  yelp  from  the  valley,  or  the  snow 

Sizzling  upon  hot  iron.     Queer,  indeed, 

To  think  that  he  had  never  taken  heed 

Before  to-night,  or  thought  about  it  all. 

He'd  been  a  boy  till  this,  and  had  no  call 
To  turn  his  mind  to  thinking  seriously. 
But  he'd  grown  up  since  yesterday;  and  he 
Must  think  a  man's  thoughts  now  —  since  yesterday 
When  he'd  not  had  a  thought  but  who  should  play 
Full-back  for  Cleveland  Rovers,  now  that  Jack 
Had  gone  to  Montreal,  or  should  he  back 
Old  Girl  or  Cleopatra  for  the  Cup. 

In  four-and-twenty  hours  he  had  grown  up  ... 
His  father,  sinking  back  there  on  the  bed, 
With  glassy  eyes  and  helpless  lolling  head  .  .  . 
The  dropping  jaw  ...  the  breath  that  didn't  come, 
Though  still  he  listened  for  it,  frozen  numb  .  .  . 

And  then,  his  mother  .  .  .  but  he  must  not  let 
His  mind  run  on  his  mother  now.     And  yet 
He'd  often  thought  his  father  glum  and  grim. 
He  understood  now.     It  was  not  for  him, 
His  son,  to  breathe  a  word  to  her,  when  he, 
Her  husband,  had  borne  with  her  patiently 


LIVELIHOOD  519 

Through  all  those  years.     Ay,  now  he  understood 
Much,  since  he  hadn't  his  own  livelihood 
To  think  of  only,  but  five  mouths  to  feed  — 
And  the  oldest,  the  most  helpless  .  .  .  He  had  need 
To  understand  a  little  .  .  . 

But  to-night 

He  mustn't  brood  .  .  .  And  what  a  golden  light 
The  steady  spurt  of  molten  slag  below 
Threw  up  upon  the  snow-clouds  —  and  the  snow 
Drifting  down  through  it  in  great  flakes  of  gold, 
Melting  to  steam,  or  driven,  white  and  cold, 
Into  the  darkness  on  a  sudden  gust. 
And  how  the  cold  wind  caught  him,  as  he  thrust 
His  empty  trolley  back  towards  the  hoist, 
Straight  from  the  sea,  making  his  dry  lips  moist 
With  salty  breath. 

'Twas  strange  to-night,  hqw  he 
Was  noticing,  and  seeing  suddenly 
Things  for  the  first  time  he'd  not  seen  before, 
Though  he'd  been  on  this  shift  at  least  a  score 
Of  times.     But  things  were  different  somehow.     Strange 
To  think  his  father's  death  had  wrought  the  change 
And  made  him  see  things  different  —  little  things: 
The  sudden  flashing  of  a  sea-gull's  wings 
Out  of  the  dark,  bewildered  by  the  glare ; 
And,  when  the  flame  leapt,  mum-glum  Peter's  hair 
Kindling  a  fierier  red ;  the  wind ;  the  snow ; 
The  unseen  washing  of  the  waves  below 
About  the  cliff-foot.     He  could  almost  see, 
In  fancy,  breakers,  frothing  furiously 
Against  the  crumbling  cliffs  —  the  frantic  spray 
Leaping  into  the  darkness,  nigh  half-way 
Up  the  sheer  height. 

And  now  his  thoughts  dropt  back 
Into  the  valley,  lying  still  and  black 
Behind  him  —  and  the  mine  where  other  men 
Were  toiling  on  their  nightshift,  even  then 
Working  the  ironstone  for  daily  bread, 
Their  livelihood  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  little  red 

Raw  row  of  square  brick  houses,  dark  they'd  be 
And  quiet  now.     Yet,  plainly  he  could  see 
The  street  he  lived  in  —  ay,  and  Number  Eight, 
His  father's  house:  the  rusty  iron  gate; 


520  LIVELIHOOD 

The  unkempt  garden;  and  the  blistered  door; 
The  unwashed  doorstep  he'd  not  seen  before, 
Or,  leastways,  hadn't  noticed;  and  the  bell 
That  never  rang,  though  he  remembered  well 
His  father'd  tinkered  it,  times  out  of  mind ; 
And  in  each  window,  a  drawn  yellow  blind 
Broken  and  grimy  —  and  that  blind,  to-day 
Drawn  down  for  the  first  time  .  .  . 

His  father  lay 

In  the  front  bedroom,  quiet  on  the  bed  .  .  . 
And  he,  upon  his  usual  shift  .  .  . 

She'd  said. 

His  mother'd  said ;  he  shouldn't  take  his  shift 
Before  the  undertaker'd  been  to  lift  .  .  . 
'Twas  scarcely  decent :  that  was  what  she  said  — 
Him  working,  and  his  father  lying  dead, 
And  hardly  cold  .  .  . 

And  she,  to  talk  to  him, 
His  son,  of  decency,  there,  with  that  grim 
Half-smile  still  on  her  husband's  cold  white  face! 

He  couldn't  bide  a  moment  in  the  place 
Listening  to  her  chat-chatter,  knowing  all 
That  he  knew  now  .  .  .  But  there,  he  had  no  call 
To  blame  her,  when  his  father'd  never  blamed. 
He  wondered  in  that  room  she  wasn't  shamed  .  .  . 

She  didn't  understand.     He  understood, 
Now  he'd  grown  up ;  and  had  his  livelihood, 
And  theirs,  to  earn  .  .  . 

Lord,  but  that  was  a  rare 
Fine  flourish  the  flame  made,  a  bonnie  flare 
Leaping  up  to  the  stars.     The  snow  had  stopt: 
He  hadn't  heeded :  and  the  wind  had  dropt 
Suddenly:  and  the  stars  were  shining  clear. 
Over  the  furnace'  roaring  he  could  hear 
The  waves  wash-washing;  and  could  see  the  foam 
Lifting  and  falling  down  there  in  the  gloam  .  .  . 
White  as  his  father's  face  .  .  . 

He'd  never  heard 

His  father  murmur  once  —  nay,  not  a  word 
He'd  muttered :  he  was  never  one  to  blame. 
And  men  had  got  to  take  things  as  they  came. 


IN  THE  MEADOW 

The  smell  of  wet  hay  in  the  heat 

All  morning  steaming  round  him  rose, 

As,  in  a  kind  of  nodding  doze, 

Perched  on  the  hard  and  jolting  seat, 

He  drove  the  rattling  jangling  rake 

Round  and  around  the  Five  Oaks  Mead. 

With  that  old  mare  he  scarcely  need 

To  drive  at  all  or  keep  awake. 

Gazing  with  half-shut,  sleepy  eyes 

At  her  white  flanks  and  grizzled  tail 

That  flicked  and  flicked  without  avail, 

To  drive  away  the  cloud  of  flies 

That  hovered,  closing  and  unclosing, 

A  shimmering  hum  and  humming  shimmer, 

Dwindling  dim  and  ever  dimmer 

In  his  dazzled  sight,  till,  dozing, 

He  seemed  to  hear  a  murmuring  stream 

And  gaze  into  a  rippling  pool 

Beneath  thick  branches  dark  and  cool  — 

And  gazing,  gazing  till  a  gleam 

Within  the  darkness  caught  his  eyes, 

He  saw  there  smiling  up  at  him 

A  young  girl's  face,  now  rippling  dim, 

Now  flashing  clear  .  .  . 

Without  surprise 

He  marked  the  eyes  translucent  blue, 
The  full  red  lips  that  seemed  to  speak, 
The  curves  of  rounded  chin  and  cheek, 
The  low,  broad  brow,  sun-tanned  .  .  . 

He  knew 

That  face,  yet  could  not  call  to  mind 
Where  he  had  seen  it ;  and  in  vain 
Strove  to  recall  .  .  .  when  sudden  rain 
Crashed  down  and  made  the  clear  pool  blind, 
And  it  was  lost  .  .  . 

And,  with  a  jerk 

That  well-nigh  shook  him  from  his  seat, 
He  wakened  to  the  steamy  heat 
521 


522  LIVELIHOOD 

And  clank  and  rattle. 

Still  at  work 

The  stolid  mare  kept  on ;  and  still 
Over  her  hot,  white  flanks  the  flies 
Hung  humming.     And  his  dazzled  eyes 
Closed  gradually  again,  until 
He  dozed  .  .  . 

And  stood  within  the  door 
Of  Dinchill  dairy,  drinking  there 
Thirst-quenching  draughts  of  stone-cold  air  — 
The  scoured  white  shelves  and  sanded  floor 
And  shallow  milk-pans  creamy-white 
Gleamed  coldly  in  the  dusky  light  .  .  . 
And  then  he  saw  her,  stooping  down 
Over  a  milk-pan,  while  her  eyes 
Looked  up  at  him  without  surprise 
Over  the  shoulder  of  her  gown  — 
Her  fresh  print  gown  of  speedwell  blue  .  .  . 
The  eyes  that  looked  out  of  the  cool 
Untroubled  crystal  of  the  pool 
Looked  into  his  again. 

He  knew 
Those  eyes  now  .  .  . 

From  his  dreamy  doze 
A  sudden  jolting  of  the  rake 
Aroused  him. 

Startled  broad  awake 
He  sat  upright,  lost  in  amaze 
That  he  should  dream  of  her  —  that  lass!  — 
And  see  her  face  within  the  pool ! 

He'd  known  her  always.     Why,  at  school 
They'd  sat  together  in  the  class. 
He'd  always  liked  her  well  enough, 
Young  Polly  Dale  —  and  they  had  played 
At  Prisoners'  Base  and  Who's  Afraid, 
At  Tiggy  and  at  Blindman's  Buff, 
A  hundred  times  together  .  .  . 

Ay, 

He'd  always  known  her  ...  It  was  strange, 
Though  he  had  noticed  that  a  change 
Had  come  upon  her  —  she  was  shy, 
And  quieter,  since  she  left  school 
And  put  her  hair  up  —  he'd  not  seen 


LIVELIHOOD  523 

Her  face,  till  from  the  glancing  sheen 
It  looked  up  at  him  from  the  pool  .  .  . 

He'd  always  known  her.     Every  day, 
He'd  nod  to  her  as  they  would  pass. 
He'd  always  known  her,  as  a  lass  .  .  . 
He'd  never  know  her  just  that  way 
Again  now  .  .  . 

In  a  different  wise 

They'd  meet  —  for  how  could  he  forget 
His  dream  .  .  .  The  next  time  that  they  met 
He'd  look  into  a  woman's  eyes. 


PARTNERS 

He'd  got  to  see  it  through.     Ay,  that  was  plain  — 
Plain  as  the  damning  figures  on  that  page 
Which  burnt  and  bit  themselves  into  his  brain 
Since  he'd  first  lighted  on  them  —  such  an  age 
Since  he'd  first  lighted  on  them!  though  the  clock 
Had  only  ticked  one  hour  out  —  its  white  face 
And  black  hands  counting  time  alone  — 

The  shock 

Had  dropped  him  out  of  time  and  out  of  space 
Into  the  dead  void  of  eternity, 
Lightless  and  aching,  where  his  soul  hung  dead 
With  wide  set  staring  eyes  that  still  could  see 
Those  damning  figures  burning  hugely  red 
On  the  low  aching  dome  of  the  black  heaven 
That  crushed  upon  his  temples  —  glaring  bright  — 
10,71 1  — 
Searing  his  eyeballs  .  .  . 

Yet  his  living  sight 

Was  fixed  on  the  white  ledger,  while  he  sat 
Before  his  office-table  in  his  chair  — 
The  chair  he'd  taken  when  he'd  hung  his  hat 
Within  the  cupboard  door,  and  brushed  his  hair, 
And  stood  a  moment,  humming  "  Chevy  Chase," 
His  hands  beneath  his  coat-tails,  by  the  grate, 
Warming  his  back,  and  thinking  of  a  case 
They'd  won  outright  with  costs,  and  .  .  . 

Phil  was  late: 

But  Phil  was  Phil.     At  home  they  used  to  call 
His  brother  "  Better-late."     At  every  turn 
He'd  had  to  wait  for  Phil.     And  after  all 
There  wasn't  so  much  doing,  now  that  concern  .  .  . 

And  little  thinking  anything  was  wrong, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  his  own  armchair 
To  draw  it  out,  still  humming  the  old  song, 
He'd  seen  the  note  from  Philip  lying  there 
Upon  the  open  ledger. 

524 


LIVELIHOOD  525 

Once,  he  read 

The  truth,  unrealising,  and  again. 
But  only  two  words  echoed  through  his  head, 
And  buzzed  uncomprehended  in  his  brain  — 
"  Embezzled  "  and  "  absconded." 

Phil  had  spelt 

His  shame  out  boldly  in  his  boyish  hand. 
And  then  those  figures  .  .  . 

Dizzily  he  felt 

The  truth  burn  through  him.     He  could  hardly  stand, 
But  sank  into  his  chair  with  eyes  set  wide 
Upon  those  damning  figures,  murmuring  "  Phil!  " 
And  listening  to  the  whirr  of  wheels  outside, 
And  sparrows  cheeping  on  the  window-sill  — 
Still  murmuring  "  Phil !     Poor  Phil !  " 

But  Phil  was  gone : 

And  he  was  left  alone  to  bear  the  brunt  .  .  . 
"Phil!     Little  Phil!" 

And  still  the  morning  shone 
Bright  at  the  window  .  .  . 

Callous,  curt  and  blunt, 

The  world  would  call  his  brother  .  .  .  not  that  name ! 
And  yet  names  mattered  little  at  this  pass. 
He'd  known  that  Phil  was  slack  ...  but  this ! 

The  blame 

Was  his  as  much  as  Phil's.     As  in  a  glass 
Darkly,  he  saw  he'd  been  to  blame  as  well: 
And  he  would  bear  the  blame.     Had  he  not  known 
That  Phil  was  slack?     For  all  that  he  could  tell, 
If  he'd  looked  after  Phil,  this  might  .  .  . 

Alone 

He'd  got  to  face  the  music.     He  was  glad 
He  was  alone  .  .  .  And  yet,  for  Phil's  own  sake 
If  he  had  only  had  the  pluck,  poor  lad, 
To  see  the  thing  through  like  a  man,  and  take 
His  punishment! 

For  him,  was  no  escape, 
Either  by  Phil's  road,  or  that  darker  road. 
He  knew  the  cost,  and  how  the  thing  would  shape  — 
Too  well  he  knew  the  full  weight  of  the  load 
He  strapped  upon  his  shoulders.     It  was  just 
That  he  should  bear  the  burden  on  his  back. 
He'd  trusted  Phil;  and  he'd  no  right  to  trust 
Even  his  brother,  knowing  he  was  slack, 


526  LIVELIHOOD 

When  other  people's  money  was  at  stake.. 

He'd,  too,  been  slack :  and  slackness  was  a  crime  — 

The  deadliest  crime  of  all  ... 

And  broad  awake, 

As  in  a  nightmare  he  was  "  doing  time  " 
Already  .  .  . 

Yet,  he'd  only  trusted  Phil  — 
His  brother,  Phil  — and  it  had  come  to  this! 

Always  before  whenever  things  went  ill 
His  brother'd  turned  to  him  for  help;  and  his 
Had  always  been  the  hand  stretched  out  to  him. 
Now  Phil  had  fled  even  him.     If  he'd  but  known! 

Brooding  he  saw  with  tender  eyes  grown  dim 
Phil  running  down  that  endless  road  alone  — 
Phil  running  from  himself  down  that  dark  road  — 
The  road  w'hich  leads  nowhither,  which  is  hell : 
And  yearning  towards  him,  bowed  beneath  his  load, 
And  murmuring  "  Little  Phil!  "... 

Again  he  fell 

Into  the  dead  void  of  eternity, 
Lightless  and  aching,  where  his  soul  hung  dead 
With  wide-set  staring  eyes  that  still  could  see 
Those  damning  figures,  burning  hugely  red 
On  the  low  aching  dome  of  the  black  heaven 
That  crushed  upon  his  temples  —  glaring  bright  — 
10,711  — 
Searing  his  eyeballs  .  .  . 

When  a -ripple  of  light 
Dappled  his  desk  .  .  . 

And  they  were  boys  together, 
Rambling  the  hills  of  home  that  April  day, 
Stumbling  and  plunging  knee-deep  through  the  heather 
Towards  Hallypike,  the  little  lough  that  lay 
Glancing  and  gleaming  in  the  sun,  to  search 
For  eggs  of  inland-breeding  gulls.     He  heard 
The  curlews  piping ;  saw  a  blackcock  perch 
Upon  a  dyke  hard-by  —  a  lordly  bird 
With  queer  curled  tail.     And  soon  they  reached  the  edge 
The  quaggy  edge  of  Hallypike.     And  then 
The  gulls  rose  at  them  screaming  from  the  sedge 
With  flapping  wings.     And  for  a  while  like  men 
They  stood  their  ground  among  the  quaking  moss, 


LIVELIHOOD  527 

Until  half-blinded  by  the  dazzling  white 

Of  interweaving  wings,  and  at  a  loss 

Which  way  to  turn,  they  only  thought  of  flight 

From  those  fierce  cruel  beaks  and  hungry  eyes  — 

Yet  stood  transfixed,  each  on  a  quaking  clump, 

With  hands  to  ears  to  shut  out  those  wild  cries. 

Then  the  gulls  closed  on  Phil ;  and  with  a  jump 

And  one  shrill  yell  he'd  plunged  into  the  lake 

Half-crazed  with  terror.     Only  just  in  time 

He'd  stumbled  after  through  the  quag  aquake 

And  caught  him  by  the  coat ;  and  through  black  slime 

Had  dragged  him  into  safety,  far  away 

From  the  horror  of  white  wings  and  beaks  and  eyes. 

And  he  remembered  now  how  Philip  lay 

Sobbing  upon  his  bosom  .  .  . 

Now  those  cries 

Were  threatening  Phil  again;  and  he  was  caught 
Blind  in  a  beating,  baffling,  yelling  hell 
Of  wings  and  beaks  and  eyes.     And  there  was  naught 
That  he  could  do  for  him  .  .  . 

Once  more  he  fell 
Into  the  dead  void  of  eternity, 
Lightless  and  aching,  and  his  soul  hung  dead 
With  wide  set  staring  eyes  that  still  could  see 
Those  damning  figures,  burning  hugely  red 
On  the  low  aching  dome  of  the  black  heaven 
That  crushed  upon  his  temples  —  glaring  bright  — 
10,711 

Searing  his  eyeballs  .  .  .  Then  the  pitchy  night 
Rolled  by  ... 

And  now  that  summer  noon  they  sat 
In  the  shallows  of  Broomlee  lake,  the  water  warm 
About  their  chins,  and  talked  of  this  and  that; 
And  heeded  nothing  of  the  coming  storm, 
Or  the  strange  breathless  stillness  everywhere 
On  which  the  dull  note  of  the  cuckoo  fell 
Monotonously  beating  through  dead  air, 
A  throbbing  pulse  of  heat  made  audible. 
And  even  when  the  sky  was  brooding  grey 
They'd  slowly  dressed,  and  started  to  walk  round 
The  mile-long  lake:  but  when  they'd  got  half-way, 
A  heavy  fear  fell  on  them ;  and  they  found 
That  they  were  clutching  hands.     The  still  lough  gleamed 
Livid  before  them  'neath  a  livid  sky 


528  LIVELIHOOD 

Sleek  and  unrippling  .  .  .  Suddenly  they  screamed 
•  And  ran -headlong  for  home  they  knew  not  why  — 
Ran  stumbling  through  the  heath,  and  never  stopped  — 
And  still  hot  brooding  horror  on  them  pressed 
When  they  had  climbed  up  Sewingshields,  and  dropped 
Dead-beat  beneath  the  dyke.     And  on  his  breast 
Poor  frightened  Phil  had  sobbed  himself  to  sleep. 

And  even  when  the  crashing  thunder  came, 
Phil  snuggled  close  in  slumber  sound  and  deep. 
And  he  alone  had  watched  the  lightning  flame 
Across  the  fells,  and  flash  on  Hallypike  .  .  . 

And  in  his  office  chair,  he  felt -once  more 
His  back  against  the  sharp  stones  of  the  dyke, 
And  Phil's  hot  clutching  arms  .  .  . 

An  outer  door 
Banged  in  the  wind,  and  roused  him  .  .  . 

He  was  glad, 

In  spite  of  all,  to  think  he'd  trusted  Phil. 
He'd  got  to  see  it  through  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  lad, 

His  little  frightened  brother  crouching  still 
Beneath  the  brooding  horror  of  the  sky. 
That  he  might  take  him  in  his  arms  once  more! 

Now,  he  must  pull  himself  together,  ay! 
For  there  was  some  one  tapping  at  the  door. 


THE  ELM 

The  wind  had  caught  the  elm  at  last. 
He'd  lain  all  night  and  wondered  how 
'Twas  bearing  up  against  the  blast : 
And  it  was  down  for  ever  now, 
Snapt  like  a  match-stick.     He,  at  dawn, 
Had  risen  from  his  sleepless  bed, 
And,  hobbling  to  the  window,  drawn 
The  blind  up,  and  had  seen,  instead 
Of  that  brave  tree  against  the  sky, 
Thrust  up  into  the  windless  blue 
A  broken  stump  not  ten  feet  high  .  .  . 

And  it  was  changed,  the  world  he  knew, 
The  world  he'd  known  since  he,  tip-toe, 
Had  first  looked  out  beneath  the  eaves, 
And  seen  that  tree  at  dawn,  aglow, 
Soaring  with  all  its  countless  leaves 
In  their  first  glory  of  fresh  green, 
Like  a  big  flame  above  the  mead. 

How  many  mornings  he  had  seen 

It  soaring  since  —  well,  it  would  need 

A  better  head  to  figure  out 

Than  his,  now  he  was  seventy-five, 

And  failing  fast  without  a  doubt  — 

The  last  of  fifteen,  left  alive, 

That  in  that  very  room  were  born, 

Ay,  and  upon  that  very  bed 

He'd  left  at  daybreak. 

Many  a  morn 

He'd  seen  it,  stark  against  the  red 
Of  winter  sunrise,  or  in  Spring  — 
Some  April  morning,  dewy-clear, 
With  all  its  green  buds  glittering 
In  the  first  sunbeams,  soaring  sheer 
Out  of  low  mist. 

529 


530  LIVELIHOOD 

The  morn  he  wed 
It  seemed  with  glittering  jewels  hung  .  .  . 

And  fifty  year,  his  wife  was  dead  — 
And  she,  so  merry-eyed  and  young  .  .  . 

And  it  was  black  the  night  she  died, 
Dead  black  against  the  starry  sky, 
When  he  had  flung  the  window  wide 
Upon  the  night  so  crazily, 
Instead  of  drawing  down  the  blind 
As  he  had  meant.     He  was  so  dazed, 
And  fumbled  so,  he  couldn't  find 
The  hasp  to  pull  it  to,  though  crazed 
To  shut  them  out,  that  starry  night, 
And  that  great  funeral-plume  of  black, 
So  awful  in  the  cold  starlight. 
He'd  fumbled  till  they  drew  him  back, 
And  closed  it  for  him  .  .  . 

And  for  long 

At  night  he  couldn't  bear  to  see 
An  elm  against  the  stars. 

'Twas  wrong, 

He  knew,  to  blame  an  innocent  tree  — 
Though  some  folk  hated  elms,  and  thought 
Them  evil:  for  their  great  boughs  fell 
So  suddenly  .  .  . 

George  Stubbs  was  caught 
And  crushed  to  death.     You  couldn't  tell 
What  brought  that  great  bough  crashing  there, 
Just  where  George  sat  —  his  cider-keg 
Raised  to  his  lips  —  for  all  the  air 
Was  still  as  death  .  .  .  And  just  one  leg 
Stuck  silly-like  out  of  the  leaves, 
When  Seth  waked  up  ten  yards  away 
Where  he'd  been  snoozing  'mid  the  sheaves. 

'Twas  queer-like ;  but  you  couldn't  say 
The  tree  itself  had  been  to  blame. 
That  bough  was  rotten  through  and  through, 
And  would  have  fallen  just  the  same 
Though  George  had  not  been  there  .  .  . 

'Twas  true 
That  undertakers  mostly  made 


LIVELIHOOD  53i 

Cheap  coffins  out  of  elm  .  .  . 

But  he, 

Well,  he  could  never  feel  afraid 
Of  any  living  thing.     That  tree, 
He'd  seemed  to  hate  it  for  a  time 
After  she'd  died  .  .  .  And  yet  somehow 
You  can't  keep  hating  without  rhyme 
Or  reason  any  live  thing. 

Now 

He  grieved  to  see  it,  fallen  low, 
With  almost  every  branch  and  bough 
Smashed  into  splinters.     All  that  snow, 
A  dead-weight,  and  that  heavy  blast, 
Had  dragged  it  down :  and  at  his  feet 
It  lay,  the  mighty  tree,  at  last. 

And  he  could  make  its  trunk  his  seat 
And  rest  awhile  this  winter's  noon 
In  the  warm  sunshine.     He  could  just 
Hobble  so  far.     And  very  soon 
He'd  lie  as  low  himself.     He'd  trust 
His  body  to  that  wood. 

Old  tree, 

So  proud  and  brave  this  many  a  year, 
Now  brought  so  low  .  .  . 

Ah !  there  was  he, 

His  grandson,  Jo,  with  never  a  fear 
Riding  a  bough  unbroken  yet  — 
A  madcap,  like  his  father,  Jim! 
He'd  teach  him  sense,  if  he  could  get 
Behind  him  with  a  stick,  the  limb ! 


THE  DOCTOR 

He'd  soon  be  home.     The  car  was  running  well, 

Considering  what  she'd  been  through,  since  the  bell 

Tumbled  him  out  again  —  just  as  his  head 

Sank  in  the  pillow,  glad  to  get  to  bed 

After  the  last  night's  watching,  and  a  day 

Of  travelling  snowy  roads  without  a  stay  — 

To  find  the  tall  young  shepherd  at  the  door. 

"  The  wife's  gey  bad  in  child-bed  " —  and  no  more 
He'd  said  till  they  were  seated  in  the  car, 
And  he  was  asked,  Where  to  ?  and  was  it  far  ? 
"  The  Scalp  "  he'd  said  — "  Some  fifteen  mile  or  so." 

And  they'd  set  out  through  blinding  squalls  of  snow 
To  climb  the  hills.     The  car  could  scarcely  crawl 
At  times,  she  skidded  so ;  and  with  that  squall 
Clean  in  his  eyes  he  scarcely  saw  to  steer  — 
His  big  lamps  only  lit  a  few  yards  clear  — 

But  those  young  eyes  beside  him  seemed  to  pierce 
The  fifteen  miles  of  smother  fuming  fierce 
Between  the  husband  and  his  home  —  the  light 
In  that  far  bedroom  window  held  his  sight, 
As  though  he  saw  clean  through  the  blinding  squall 
To  the  little  square  stone  steading  that  held  all 
His  heart  —  so  solitary,  bleak  and  grey 
Among  the  snow-drifts  on  the  windy  brae, 
Beyond  the  burn  that,  swollen,  loud  and  black 
Threatened  the  single  plank  that  kept  the  track 
Between  them  and  the  outside  world  secure. 
If  that  were  gone,  when  he  got  back,  for  sure 
They'd  have  to  plunge  waist-deep  in  that  black  spate 
And  cling  for  life  upon  the  old  sheep-gate, 
If  it  were  not  gone  too,  to  cross  at  all  ... 

And  she !     He  saw  the  shadow  on  the  wall 
Behind  the  bed,  his  mother's  as  she  bent 
532 


LIVELIHOOD  533 

To  comfort  Mary,  for  a  moment  spent 
By  the  long  agony  .  .  .  That  shadow  seemed 
So  black  and  threatening,  and  the  candle  gleamed 
So  strangely  in  those  wild  bright  eyes  .  .  . 

They'd  be 

Lucky  to  reach  the  bank  at  all:  for  he 
Had  been  through  that  burn  once  on  such  a  night: 
And  he  remembered  how  he'd  had  to  fight 
The  frothing  flood,  rolled  over,  beaten,  bruised, 
And  well-nigh  dragged  down  under,  though  well  used 
To  every  mood  and  temper  of  the  burn. 

Yet,  though  he  gazed  so  far,  he  missed  no  turn 

In  all  those  climbing  miles  of  snow-blind  way 

Until  the  car  stopt  dead  by  Gallows'  Brae, 

And  they'd  to  leave  her  underneath  a  dyke, 

And  plunge  knee-deep  through  drift-choked  slack  and  syke 

Until  they  reached  the  plank  that  still  held  fast, 

Though  quivering  underfoot  in  that  wild  blast 

Like  a  stretched  clothes-line.     Dizzily  they  crossed 

Above  that  brawling  blackness,  torn  and  tossed 

To  flashing  spray  about  the  lantern.     Then 

Setting  their  teeth,  they  took  the  brae,  like  men 

At  desperate  hazard  charging  certain  death: 

And  nigh  the  crest  the  doctor  reeled  —  his  breath 

Knocked  out  of  him,  and  sinking  helplessly 

Knew  nothing  till  he  wakened  drowsily 

Before  the  peat,  and  found  himself  alone 

In  a  strange  kitchen. 

But  a  heavy  moan 

Just  overhead  recalled  him,  and  he  leapt 
Instantly  to  his  feet,  alert,  and  crept 
Upstairs  with  noiseless  step  until  he  came 
To  the  low  bedroom,  where  the  candle  flame 
Showed  the  old  woman,  standing  by  the  bed 
On  which  the  young  wife  lay.     His  noiseless  tread 
Scarce  startling  them,  he  paused  a  moment  while 
Those  strained  white  lips  and  wild  eyes  strove  to  smile 
Bravely  and  tenderly  as  the  husband  bent 
Over  the  bed  to  kiss  her,  and  then  went 
Without  a  word,  closing  the  creaking  door, 
And  crept  downstairs  on  tiptoe,  and  once  more 
The  room  was  filled  with  moaning. 


534  LIVELIHOOD 

When  at  last 

His  part  was  done,  and  danger  safely  past, 
And  into  a  wintry  world  with  lusty  crying 
That  little  life  had  ventured,  and  was  lying 
Beside  the  drowsy  mother  on  the  bed, 
Downstairs  the  doctor  stole  with  noiseless  tread, 
And,  entering  the  kitchen  quietly, 
Saw  the  young  father  gazing  fearfully 
Into  the  fire  with  dazed  unseeing  eyes. 
He  spoke  to  him :  and  still  he  did  not  rise, 
But  sat  there  staring  with  that  senseless  gaze 
Set  on  the  peat  that  with  a  sudden  blaze 
Lit  up  his  drawn  face,  bloodless  'neath  its  tan. 
But  when  the  doctor  stooped  and  touched  the  man 
Upon  the  shoulder,  starting  to  his  feet 
He  staggered,  almost  falling  in  the  peat, 
Whispering  "  She's  safe!     She's  safe!  " 

And  then  he  leapt 

Suddenly  up  the  stair.     The  doctor  crept 
Speedily  after  him  without  a  sound : 
But  when  he  reached  the  upper  room  he  found 
He  wasn't  needed.     The  young  husband  bent 
Over  his  wife  and  baby,  quiet,  content : 
Then  the  wife  stirred,  opening  her  eyes,  and  smiled 
And  they  together  looked  upon  their  child. 

The  doctor  drowsed  till  dawn  beside  the  peat, 
Napping  uneasily  in  the  high-backed  seat, 
Half-conscious  of  the  storm  that  shook  the  pane 
And  rattled  at  the  door  .  .  . 

And  now  again   , 

He  seemed  to  stand  beside  the  lonely  bed 
He'd  stood  beside  last  night  —  the  old  man,  dead 
With  staring  eyes,  dropt  jaw,  and  rigid  grin 
That  held  the  stark  white  features,  peaked  and  thin  — 
The  old  man,  left  alone,  with  not  a  friend 
To  make  his  body  seemly  in  the  end, 
Or  close  his  eyes  .  .  . 

And  then  the  lusty  cry 
Of  that  young  baby  screaming  hungrily 
Broke  through  his  dream  .  .  . 


The  car  was  running  well. 


LIVELIHOOD  535 

He'd  soon  be  home,  and  sleeping  —  till  the  bell 
Should  rouse  him  to  a  world  of  old  men  dying 
Alone,  and  hungry  newborn  babies  crying. 


THE  LAMP 

She  couldn't  bring  herself  to  bar  the  door  — 
And  him  on  the  wrong  side  of  it.     Nevermore 
She'd  hear  his  footstep  on  the  threshold-stone  .  .  . 

"  You're  not  afraid  to  lie  all  night  alone, 

And  Jim  but  newly  drowned  ?  "  they'd  asked :  and  she 

Had  turned  upon  her  neighbours  wonderingly. 

"  Afraid  of  what?  "  she  said.     "  Afraid  of  him  "; 

The  neighbours  answered.     "  Me  —  afraid  of  Jim! 

And  after  all  these  years!  "  she  cried — "  and  he  — 

How  can  you  think  that  he'd  bring  harm  to  me? 

You  know  him  better,  surely,  even  you ! 

And  I  ..."     Then  they  had  left  her,  for  they  knew 

Too  well  that  any  word  that  they  could  say 

Would  help  her  nothing. 

When  they'd  gone  away, 
Leaving  her  to  her  trouble,  she  arose, 
And,  taking  from  the  kist  his  Sunday  clothes, 
Folded  so  neatly,  kept  so  carefully 
In  camphor,  free  of  moth,  half-absently 
She  shook  them  out,  and  hung  them  up  to  air 
Before  the  fire  upon  his  high-backed  chair: 
And  then  when  they  were  aired  she  folded  them 
Carefully,  seam  to  seam  and  hem  to  hem, 
And  smoothing  them  with  tender  hands,  again 
She  laid  them  in  the  kist  where  they  had  lain 
Six  days  a  week  for  hard  on  forty  year  .  .  . 

Ay,  forty  year  they'd  shared  each  hope  and  fear  — 
They  two,  together  —  yet  she  might  not  tend 
With  loving  hands  his  body  in  the  end. 
The  sea  had  taken  him  from  her.     And  she  — 
She  could  do  nothing  for  him  now.     The  sea 
Had  taken  him  from  her.     And  nevermore 
Might  she  do  anything  for  him  .  .  . 

The  door 

Flapped  in  the  wind.     She  shut  and  snecked  it  tight, 
536 


LIVELIHOOD  537 

But  did  not  bolt  it.     Then  she  set  a  light 

In  the  white-curtained  window,  where  it  shone 

As  clearly  as  on  each  night  that  he  had  gone 

Out  with  the  boats  in  all  that  forty  year, 

And  each  night  she  had  watched  it  burning  clear, 

Alone  and  wakeful  .  .  .  and,  though  lonelier, 

She'd  lie  to-night  as  many  a  night  she'd  lain 

On  her  left  side,  with  face  turned  towards  the  pane, 

So  that,  if  she  should  wake,  at  once  she'd  see 

If  still  her  beacon-light  burned  steadily, 

Feeling  that,  maybe,  somewhere  in  the  night 

Of  those  dark  waters  he  could  see  the  light 

Far-off  and  very  dim,  a  little  spark 

Of  comfort  burning  for  him  in  the  dark, 

And,  even  though  it  should  dwindle  from  his  sight, 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  must  feel  the  light 

Burning  within  his  heart,  the  light  of  home  .  .  . 

From  those  black  cruel  waters  sudden  foam 

Flashed  as  she  gazed ;  and  with  a  shuddering  stir, 

As  though  cold  drowning  waves  went  over  her, 

She  stood  a  moment  gasping.     Then  she  turned 

From  the  bright  window  where  her  watch-light  burned, 

And,  taking  off  her  clothes,  crept  into  bed 

To  see  if  she  could  sleep.     But  when  her  head 

Touched  the  cold  pillow,  such  hot  restlessness 

She  felt,  she'd  half-a-mind  to  rise  and  dress 

Each  moment,  as  she  tossed  from  side  to  side. 

The  bed  to-night  seemed  very  big  and  wide 

And  hard  and  cold  to  her,  though  a  hot  ache 

Held  her  whole  body  tingling  wide  awake 

Turning  and  tossing  half  the  endless  night. 

Then  quieter  she  lay,  and  watched  the  light 

Burning  so  steadily,  until  the  flame 

Dazzled  her  eyes,  and  golden  memories  came 

Out  of  the  past  to  comfort  her.     She  lay 

Remembering, —  remembering  that  day 

Nigh  twenty  years  since  when  she'd  thought  him  drowned, 

And  after  all  ... 

She  heard  again  the  sound 
Of  seas  that  swept  a  solid  wall  of  green, 
Such  seas  as  living  eye  had  never  seen, 
Over  the  rock-bound  harbour,  with  a  roar 


538  LIVELIHOOD 

Rushing  the  beach,  tossing  against  the  door 

Driftwood  and  old  cork-floats,  slashing  the  pane 

With  flying  weed  again  and  yet  again, 

As  toppling  to  disaster,  sea  on  sea 

Beneath  that  crashing  wind  broke  furiously 

Almost  upon  the  very  threshold-stone 

In  white  tumultuous  thunder.     All  alone 

She  watched  through  that  long  morn:  too  much  afraid 

To  stir  or  do  a  hand's  turn,  her  heart  prayed 

One  prayer  unceasingly,  though  not  a  word 

Escaped  her  lips ;  till  in  a  lull  she  heard 

A  neighbour  call  out  that  the  Morning  Star . 

Had  gone  ashore  somewhere  beyond  Hell  Scar, 

Hard  by  the  Wick,  and  all  ...  and  then  the  roar 

Drowned  everything  .  .  . 

And  how  she  reached  the  door 
She  never  knew.     She  found  herself  outside 
Suddenly  face  to  face  with  that  mad  tide, 
Battling  for  breath  against  a  wind  that  fought 
Each  inch  with  her,  as  she  turned  North,  and  caught 
Her  bodily,  and  flung  her  reeling  back 
A  dozen  times  before  she  reached  the  track 
That  runs  along  the  crag-top  to  the  Head. 
Bent  double,  still  she  struggled  on,  half-dead, 
For  not  a  moment  could  she  stand  upright 
Against  that  wind,  striving  with  all  her  might 
To  reach  the  Wick.     She  struggled  through  that  wind 
As  through  cold  clinging  water,  deaf  and  blind ; 
And  numb  and  heavy  in  that  icy  air 
Her  battered  body  felt,  as  though,  stark-bare, 
She  floundered  in  deep  seas.     Once  in  a  lull 
Flat  on  her  face  she  fell.     A  startled  gull 
Rose  skirling  at  her;  and  with  burning  eyes 
She  lay  a  moment,  far  too  scared  to  rise, 
Staring  into  a  gully,  black  as  night, 
In  which  the  seething  waters  frothing  white 
Thundered  from  crag  to  crag,  and  baffled  leapt 
A  hundred  feet  in  air.     She'd  nearly  slept 
Into  that  gully.     Just  in  time  the  wind 
Had  dropt.     One  moment  more,  and  headlong,  blind, 
She'd  tumbled  into  that  pit  of  death  .  .  .  and  Jim, 
If  he  were  living  yet  ... 

The  thought  of  him 
Startled  her  to  her  feet:  and  on  once  more 


LIVELIHOOD  539 

Against  a  fiercer  wind  along  the  shore 
She  struggled  with  set  teeth,  and  dragging  hair 
Drenched  in  the  sousing  spray  that  leapt  in  air 
Spinning  and  hissing,  smiting  her  like  hail. 

Then  when  it  almost  seemed  that  she  must  fail 
To  reach  the  Wick,  alive  or  dead,  she  found 
That  she  was  there  already.     To  the  ground 
She  sank,  dead-beat.     Almost  too  faint  and  weak 
To  lift  her  head,  her  wild  eye's  sought  the  creek  ; 
But  there  she  saw  no  sign  of  boat  or  man  — 
Only  a  furious  smother  of  seas  that  ran 
Along  the  slanting  jetty  ceaselessly. 
Groping  for  life,  she  searched  that  spumy  sea 
For  sail  or  sign  in  vain :  then  knew  no  more  .  .  . 
Till  she  was  lifted  by  strong  arms  that  bore 
Her  safely  through  the  storm,  lying  at  rest 
Without  a  care  upon  her  husband's  breast 
Unquestioning,  till  she  reached  home,  content 
To  feel  his  arms  about  her,  as  he  bent 
Over  her  tenderly  and  breathed  her  name. 

And  then  she  heard  how,  back  from  death,  he  came 
Unscathed  to  her,  by  some  strange  mercy  thrown 
Alive  almost  upon  his  threshold-stone: 
When,  hearing  where  she'd  gone,  he'd  followed  her 
Hot-foot  .  .  . 

The  breath  of  dawn  began  to  blur 
The  shining  pane  with  mist  .  .  .  And  nevermore 
His  foot  would  follow  her  along  that  shore. 
The  sea  had  taken  him  from  her,  at  last, 
Had  taken  him  to  keep  .  .  . 

Then  from  the  past 

She  waked  with  eyes  that  looked  beyond  the  light, 
Still  burning  clearly,  into  the  lingering  night, 
Black  yet,  beyond  the  streaming  window-pane 
Down  which  big  glistening  drops  of  gentle  rain 
Trickled  until  they  dazzled  her ;  and  she  lay 
Again  remembering  —  how  ere  break  of  day 
When  she  was  young  she'd  had  to  rise  and  go 
Along  the  crag-top  some  five  mile  or  so, 
With  other  lads  and  lasses,  to  Skateraw 
To  gather  bait  .  .  . 

Again  her  young  eyes  saw 


540  LIVELIHOOD 

Those  silent  figures  with  their  creels,  dead-black 

Against  the  stars,  climbing  the  sheer  cliff-track 

In  single  file  before  her,  or  quite  bright 

As  suddenly  the  light-house  flashed  its  light 

Full  on  them,  stepping  up  out  of  the  night 

On  to  the  day-bright  crag-top  —  kindling  white, 

A  moment,  windy  hair  and  streaming  grass. 

Again  she  trudged,  a  drowsy  little  lass, 

The  youngest  of  them  all,  across  dim  fields 

By  sleeping  farms  and  ruined  roofless  bields, 

Frightened  by  angry  dogs  that,  roused  from  sleep, 

Yelped  after  them,  or  by  a  startled  sheep 

That  scurried  by  her  suddenly,  while  she 

Was  staring  at  a  ship's  lights  out  at  sea, 

With  dreaming  eyes,  or  counting  countless  stars 

That  twinkled  bright  beyond  the  jagged  scars: 

Or  stumbled  over  a  slippery  shingle-beach 

Beneath  her  creel,  and  shuddered  at  the  screech 

And  sudden  clamour  of  wings  that  round  her  flapped. 

Again  she  felt  that  cruel  cold.     Though  hapt 

In  the  big  shawl,  the  raw  wind  searched  her  through 

Till  every  bone  ached.     Then  once  more  she  knew 

Brief  respite  when  at  last  they  reached  Skateraw 

And  rested  till  the  dawn. 

Again  she  saw 

Those  dark  groups  sitting  quiet  in  the  night 
Awaiting  the  first  blink  of  morning-light, 
To  set  to  work  gathering  the  bait,  while  she 
Sang  to  them  as  they  sat  beside  the  sea. 
They  always  made  her  sing,  for  she'd  a  voice 
When  she  was  young,  she  had,  and  such  a  choice 
Of  words  and  airs  by  heart:  and  she  was  glad 
To  turn  a  tune  for  any  lass  or  lad 
Who'd  ask  her,  always  glad  to  hear  them  say : 
"  Come,  Singing  Sally,  give  us  '  Duncan  Gray,' 
'  The  De'il  among  the  Tailors,'  '  Elsie  Marley,' 
'  The  Keel-Row  '  or  '  The  Wind  among  the  Barley  '  "  ; 
And  always  gladdest  when  'twas  Jim  would  ask. 

Again,  as  they  would  settle  to  their  task 

Of  gathering  clammy  mussels,  that  cold  ache 

Stole  through  her  bones.     It  seemed  her  back  must  break 

Each  time  she  stooped,  or  lifted  up  her  head, 

Though  still  she  worked  with  fingers  raw  and  red 


LIVELIHOOD  541 

Until  her  creel  was  filled.     But,  toiling  back, 
Staggering  beneath  her  load  along  the  track, 
Jim  would  come  up  with  her  and  take  her  creel 
And  bear  it  for  her,  if  she'd  sing  a  reel 
To  keep  their  hearts  up  as  they  trudged  along. 
Half-numb  with  sleep,  she'd  start  a  dancing-song, 
And  sing,  the  fresh  wind  blowing  in  her  face, 
Until  the  dancing  blood  began  to  race 
Through  her  young  body,  and  her  heart  grew  light, 
Forgetting  all  the  labours  of  the  night  .  .  . 
Once  more  she  walked  light-foot  to  that  gay  air, 
The  wind  of  morning  fresh  on  face  and  hair, 
A  girl  again  .  .  . 

And  Jim,  'twas  always  he 
Who  bore  her  burden  for  her  .  .  . 

Quietly 

With  eyes  upon  the  golden  lamp  she  lay, 
While,  all  unseen  of  her,  the  winter  day 
Behind  the  dim  wet  pane  broke  bleak  and  cold. 

She  seemed  to  look  upon  a  dawn  of  gold 
That  kindled  every  dancing  wave  to  glee 
As  she  walked  homeward  singing  by  the  sea, 
As  she  walked  homeward  with  the  windy  stir 
Fresh  in  her  flying  hair,  and  over  her 
Jim  leant  —  young  lucky  Jim  —  a  kindly  lad 
Taking  the  creel ;  and  her  girl's  heart  was  glad 
As  ... 

.  .  .  clasped  within  each  other's  arms,  the  deep 
Closed  over  them  ... 

Smiling,  she  fell  asleep. 


THE  PLATELAYER 

Tapping  the  rails  as  he  went  by 
And  driving  the  slack  wedges  tight, 
He  walked  towards  the  morning  sky 
Between  two  golden  lines  of  light 
That  dwindled  slowly  into  one 
Sheer  golden  rail  that  ran  right  on 
Over  the  fells  into  the  sun. 

And  dazzling  in  his  eyes  it  shone, 
That  golden  track,  as  left  and  right 
He  swung  his  clinking  hammer  —  ay, 
'Twas  dazzling  after  that  long  night 
In  Hindfell  tunnel,  working  by 
A  smoky  flare,  and  making  good 
The  track  the  rains  had  torn  .  .  . 

Clink,  clink, 

On  the  sound  metal  —  on  the  wood 
A  duller  thwack ! 

It  made  him  blink, 
That  running  gold  .  .  . 

'Twas  sixteen  hours 

Since  he'd  left  home  —  his  garden  smelt 
So  fragrant  with  the  heavy  showers 
When  he  left  home  —  and  now  he  felt 
That  it  would  smell  more  fresh  and  sweet 
After  the  tunnel's  reek  and  fume 
Of  damp  warm  cinders.     'Twas  a  treat 
To  come  upon  the  scent  and  bloom 
That  topped  the  cutting  by  the  wood 
After  the  cinders  of  the  track, 
The  cinders  and  tarred  sleepers  —  good 
To  lift  your  eyes  from  gritty  black 
Upon  that  blaze  of  green  and  red  .  .  . 
And  she'd  be  waiting  by  the  fence, 
And  with  the  baby  .  .  . 

Straight  for  bed 
He'd  make,  if  he  had  any  sense, 

542 


LIVELIHOOD  543 

And  sleep  the  day ;  but,  like  as  not, 
When  he'd  had  breakfast,  he'd  turn  to 
And  hoe  the  back  potato-plot: 
'Xwould  be  one  mass  of  weeds  he  knew. 
You'd  think  each  single  drop  of  rain 
Turned  as  it  fell  into  a  weed. 
You  seemed  to  hoe  and  hoe  in  vain. 
Chickweed  and  groundsel  didn't  heed 
The  likes  of  him  —  and  bindweed,  well, 
You  hoed  and  hoed  —  still  its  white  roots 
Ran  deeper  .  .  . 

'Twould  be  good  to  smell 
The  fresh  turned  earth,  and  feel  his  boots 
Sink  deep  into  the  brown  wet  mould, 
After  hard  cinders  .  .  . 

And,  maybe, 

The  baby,  sleeping  good  as  gold 
In  its  new  carriage  under  a  tree, 
Would  keep  him  company,  while  his  wife 
Washed  up  the  breakfast-things. 

'Twas  strange, 

The  difference  that  she  made  to  life, 
That  tiny  baby-girl. 

The  change  ' 

Of  work  would  make  him  sleep  more  sound. 
'Twas  sleep  he  needed.     That  long  night 
Shovelling  wet  cinders  underground, 
With  breaking  back,  the  smoky  light 
Stinging  his  eyes  till  they  were  sore  .  .  . 

He'd  worked  the  night  that  she  was  born, 
Standing  from  noon  the  day  before 
All  through  that  winter's  night  till  morn 
Laying  fog-signals  on  the  line 
Where  it  ran  over  Devil's  Ghyll  .  .  . 

And  she  was  born  at  half-past  nine, 
Just  as  he  stood  aside  until 
The  Scots  Express  ran  safely  by  ... 
He'd  but  to  shut  his  eyes  to  see 
Those  windows  flashing  blindingly 
A  moment  through  the  blizzard  —  he 
Could  feel  again  that  slashing  snow 
That  seemed  to  cut  his  face. 


544  LIVELIHOOD 

But  they, 

The  passengers,  they  couldn't  know 
What  it  cost  him  to  keep  the  way 
Open  for  them.     So  snug  and  warm 
They  slept  or  chattered,  while  he  stood 
And  faced  all  night  that  raking  storm  — 
The  little  house  beside  the  wood 
For  ever  in  his  thoughts:  and  he, 
Not  knowing  what  was  happening  .  .  . 

But  all  went  well  as  well  could  be 
With  Sally  and  the  little  thing. 
And  it  had  been  worth  while  to  wait 
Through  that  long  night  with  work  to  do, 
To  meet  his  mother  at  the  gate 
With  such  good  news,  and  find  it  true, 
Ay,  truer  than  the  truth. 

He  still 

Could  see  his  wife's  eyes  as  he  bent 
Over  the  bairn  .  .  . 

The  Devil's  Ghyll 

Had  done  its  worst,  and  he  was  spent ; 
But  he'd  have  faced  a  thousand  such 
Wild  nights  as  thon,  to  see  that  smile 
Again,  and  feel  that  tender  touch 
,  Upon  his  cheek. 

'Twas  well  worth  while 
With  such  reward.     And  it  was  strange, 
The  difference  such  a  little  thing 
Could  make  to  them  —  how  it  could  change 
Their  whole  life  for  them,  and  could  bring 
Such  happiness  to  them,  though  they 
Had  seemed  as  happy  as  could  be 
Before  it  came  to  them. 

The  day 

Was  shaping  well.     And  there  was  she, 
The  lassie  sleeping  quietly 
Within  her  arms,  beside  the  gate. 

The  storm  had  split  that  lilac  tree. 
But  he  was  tired,  and  it  must  wait. 


MAKESHIFTS 

And  after  all,  'twas  snug  and  weather-tight, 
His  garret.     That  was  much  on  such  a  night  — 
To  be  secure  against  the  wind  and  sleet 
At  his  age,  and  not  wandering  the  street, 
A  shuffling,  shivering  bag-of-bones. 

And  yet 

Things  would  be  snugger  if  he  could  forget 
The  bundle  of  old  dripping  rags  that  slouched 
Before  him  down  the  Cannongate,  and  crouched 
Close  to  the  swing-doors  of  the  Spotted  Cow. 
Why,  he  could  see  that  poor  old  sinner  now, 
Ay!  and  could  draw  him,  if  he'd  had  the  knack 
Of  drawing  anything  —  a  steamy,  black 
Dilapidation,  basking  in  the  glare, 
And  sniffing  with  his  swollen  nose  in  air 
To  catch  the  hot  reek  when  the  door  swings  wide 
And  shows  the  glittering  paradise  inside, 
Where  men  drink  golden  fire  on  seats  of  plush 
Lolling  like  gods:  he  stands  there  in  the  slush 
Shivering,  from  squelching  boots  to  sopping  hat 
One  sodden  clout,  and  blinking  like  a  bat 
Be-dazzled  by  the  blaze  of  light:  his  beard 
Waggles  and  drips  from  lank  cheeks  pocked  and  seared ; 
And  the  whole  dismal  night  about  him  drips, 
As  he  stands  gaping  there  with  watering  lips 
And  burning  eyes  in  the  cold  sleety  drench 
Afire  with  thirst  that  only  death  may  quench. 

Yet  he  had  clutched  the  sixpence  greedily 
As  if  sixpennyworth  of  rum  maybe 
Would  satisfy  that  thirst.     Who  knows!     It  might 
Just  do  the  trick  perhaps  on  such  a  night, 
And  death  would  be  a  golden,  fiery  drink 
To  that  old  scarecrow.     'Twould  be  good  to  think 
His  money 'd  satisfied  that  thirst,  and  brought 
Rest  to  those  restless  fevered  bones  that  ought 
Long  since  to  have  dropped  for  ever  out  of  sight. 
545 


546  LIVELIHOOD 

It  wasn't  decent,  wandering  the  night 

Like  that  —  not  decent.     While  it  lived  it  made 

A  man  turn  hot  to  see  it,  and  afraid 

To  look  it  in  the  face  lest  he  should  find 

That  bundle  was  himself,  grown  old  and  blind 

With  thirst  unsatisfied. 

He'd  thirsted,  too, 

His  whole  life  long,  though  not  for  any  brew 
That  trickled  out  of  taps  in  gaudy  bars 
For  those  with  greasy  pence  to  spend ! 

The  stars 

Were  not  for  purchase,  neither  bought  nor  sold 
By  any  man  for  silver  or  for  gold. 

Still,  he  was  snug  and  sheltered  from  the  storm. 
He  sat  by  his  own  hearth  secure  and  warm, 
And  that  was  much  indeed  on  such  a  night. 
The  little  room  was  pleasant  with  the  light 
Glowing  on  lime-washed  walls,  kindling  to  red 
His  copper  pots,  and,  over  the  white  bed, 
The  old  torn  Rembrandt  print  to  golden  gloom. 
'Twas  much  on  such  a  night  to  have  a  room  — 
Four  walls  and  ceiling  storm-tight  overhead. 
Denied  the  stars  —  well,  you  must  spend  instead 
Your  sixpences  on  makeshifts.     Life  was  naught 
But  toiling  for  the  sixpences  that  bought 
Makeshifts  for  stars. 

'Twas  snug  to  hear  the  sleet 
Lashing  the  panes  and  sweeping  down  the  street 
Towards  Holyrood  and  out  into  the  night 
Of  hills  beyond.     Maybe  it  would  be  white 
On  Arthur's  Seat  to-morrow,  white  with  snow  — 
A  white  hill  shining  in  the  morning  glow 
Beyond  the  chimney-pots,  that  was  a  sight 
For  any  man  to  see  —  a  snowy  height 
Soaring  into  the  sunshine.     He  was  glad 
Though  he  must  live  in  slums,  his  garret  had 
A  window  to  the  hills. 

And  he  was  warm, 

Ay,  warm  and  snug,  shut  in  here  from  the  storm. 
The  sixpences  bought  comfort  for  old  bones 
That  else  must  crouch  all  night  on  paving-stones 
Unsheltered  from  the  cold. 

'Twas  hard  to  learn 


LIVELIHOOD  547 

In  his  young  days  that  this  was  life  —  to  earn 
By  life-long  labour  just  your  board  and  bed  — 
Although  the  stars  were  singing  overhead, 
The  sons  of  morning  singing  together  for  joy 
As  they  had  sung  for  every  bright-eyed  boy 
With  ears  to  hear  since  life  itself  was  young  — 
And  leave  so  much  unseen,  so  much  unsung. 

He'd  had  to  learn  that  lesson.     'Twas  no  good 

To  go  star-gazing  for  a  livelihood 

With  empty  belly.     Though  he  had  a  turn 

For  seeing  things,  when  you  have  got  to  earn 

Your  daily  bread  first,  there  is  little  time 

To  paint  your  dream  or  set  the  stars  to  rhyme : 

Nay,  though  you  have  the  vision  and  the  skill 

You  cannot  draw  the  outline  of  a  hill 

To  please  yourself,  when  you  get  home  half-dead 

After  the  day's  work  —  hammers  in  your  head 

Still  tapping,  tapping  .  .  . 

Always  mad  to  draw 
The  living  shape  of  everything  he  saw 
He'd  had  to  spend  his  utmost  skill  and  strength 
Learning  a  trade  to  live  by,  till  at  length 
Now  he'd  the  leisure  the  old  skill  was  dead. 

Born  for  a  painter  as  it  seemed,  instead 
He'd  spent  his  life  upholstering  furniture. 
'Twas  natural  enough  men  should  prefer 
Upholstery  to  pictures,  and  their  ease 
To  little  coloured  daubs  of  cows  and  trees. 
He  didn't  blame  them,  'twas  no  fault  of  theirs 
That  they  saw  life  in  terms  of  easy  chairs, 
And  heaven,  like  that  old  sinner  in  the  slush, 
A  glittering  bar  upholstered  in  red  plush. 

'Twas  strange  to  look  back  on  it  now,  his  life  ..." 

His  father,  married  to  a  second  wife; 

And  home,  no  home  for  him  since  he  could  mind, 

Save  when  the  starry  vision  made  him  blind 

To  all  about  him,  and  he  walked  on  air 

For  days  together,  and  without  a  care  .  .  . 

But  as  the  years  passed,  seldomer  they  came 

Those  starry  dazzling  nights  and  days  aflame, 

And  oftener  a  sudden  gloom  would  drop 


548  LIVELIHOOD 

Upon  him,  drudging  all  day  in  the  shop 
With  his  young  brother  John  —  John  always  gay 
Taking  things  as  they  came,  the  easy  way, 
Not  minding  overmuch  if  things  went  wrong 
At  home,  and  always  humming  a  new  song  .  .  . 

And  then  she  came  into  his  life,  and  shook 
All  heaven  about  him.     He  had  but  to  Icok 
On  her  to  find  the  stars  within  his  reach. 
But,  ere  his  love  had  trembled  into  speech, 
He'd  waked  one  day  to  know  that  not  for  him 
Were  those  bright  living  eyes  that  turned  dreams  dim  - 
To  know  that  while  he'd  worshipped,  John  and  she 
Had  taken  to  each  other  easily  .  .  . 

But  that  was  years  ago  .  .  .  and  now  he  sat 
Beside  a  lonely  hearth.     And  they  were  fat  — 
Ay,  fat  and  old  they  were,  John  and  his  wife, 
And  with  a  grown-up  family.     Their  life 
Had  not  been  over-easy:  they'd  their  share 
Of  trouble,  ay,  more  than  enough  to  spare: 
But  they  had  made  the  best  of  things,  and  taken 
Life  as  it  came  with  courage  still  unshaken. 
They'd  faced  their  luck,  but  never  gone  half-way 
To  meet  fresh  trouble.     Life  was  always  gay 
For  them  between  the  showers :  the  roughest  weather 
Might  do  its  worst  —  they  always  stood  together 
To  bear  the  brunt,  together  stood  their  ground 
And  came  through  smiling  cheerfully.     They'd  found 
Marriage  a  hard-up,  happy  business 
Of  hand-to-mouth  existence  more  or  less ; 
But  taking  all  in  all,  well  worth  their  while 
To  look  on  the  bright  side  of  things  —  to  smile 
When  all  went  well,  not  fearing  overmuch 
When  life  was  suddenly  brought  to  the  touch 
And  you'd  to  sink  or  swim.     And  they'd  kept  hold, 
And  even  now,  though  they  were  fat  and  old 
They'd  still  a  hearty  grip  on  life  .  .  . 

They'd  be 

Sitting  there  in  their  kitchen  after  tea 
On  either  side  the  fire-place  even  now  — 
Jane  with  her  spectacles  upon  her  brow, 
And  nodding  as  she  knitted,  listening 
While  John,  in  shirt-sleeves,  scraped  his  fiddle-string, 


LIVELIHOOD  549 

With  one  ear  hearkening  lest  a  foot  should  stop 
And  some  rare  customer  invade  the  shop 
To  ask  the  price  of  some  old  Flanders'  chest 
Or  oaken  ale-house  settle  .  .  . 

They'd  the  best 
Of  life,  maybe,  together  .  .  . 

And  yet  he  — 

Though  he'd  not  taken  life  so  easily, 
Had  always  hated  makeshifts  more  or  less, 
Grudging  to  swop  the  stars  for  sixpences, 
And  was  an  old  man  now,  with  that  old  thirst 
Unsatisfied  —  ay,  even  at  the  worst 
He'd  had  his  compensations,  now  and  then 
A  starry  glimpse.     You  couldn't  work  with  men 
And  quite  forget  the  stars.     Though  life  was  spent 
In  drudgery,  it  hadn't  only  meant 
Upholstering  chairs  in  crimson  plush  for  bars  .  .  . 
Maybe  it  gave  new  meaning  to  the  stars, 
The  drudgery,  who  knows! 

At  least  the  rare 

Wild  glimpses  he  had  caught  at  whiles  were  there 
Yet  living  in  his  mind.     When  much  was  dim 
And  drudgery  forgotten,  bright  for  him 
Burned  even  now  in  memory  old  delights 
That  had  been  his  in  other  days  and  nights. 
He'd  always  seen,  though  never  could  express 
His  eyes'  delight,  or  only  more  or  less : 
But  things  once  clearly  seen,  once  and  for  all 
The  soul's  possessions  —  naught  that  may  befall 
May  ever  dim,  and  neither  moth  nor  rust 
Corrupt  the  dream,  that,  shedding  mortal  dust, 
Has  soared  to  life  and  spread  its  wings  of  gold 
Within  the  soul  .  .  . 

And  yet  when  they  were  told 
These  deathless  visions,  little  things  they  seemed 
Though  something  of  the  beauty  he  had  dreamed 
Burned  in  them,  something  of  his  youth's  desire  .  .  . 

And  as  he  sat  there,  gazing  at  the  fire  — 
Once  more  he  lingered,  listening  in  the  gloom 
Of  that  great  silent  warehouse,  in  the  room 
Where  stores  were  kept,  one  hand  upon  a  shelf, 
And  heard  a  lassie  singing  to  herself 
Somewhere  unseen  without  a  thought  who  heard, 


550  LIVELIHOOD 

Just  singing  to  herself  like  any  bird 
Because  the  heart  was  happy  in  her  breast, 
As  happy  as  the  day  was  long.     At  rest 
He  lingered,  listening,  and  a  ray  of  light 
Streamed  from  the  dormer-window  up  a  height ; 
Down  on  the  bales  of  crimson  cloth,  and  lit 
To  sudden  gold  the  dust  that  danced  in  it, 
Till  he  was  dazzled  by  the  golden  motes 
That  kept  on  dancing  to  those  merry  notes 
Before  his  dreaming  eyes,  and  danced  as  long 
As  he  stood  listening  to  the  lassie's  song  .  .  . 

Then  once  again,  his  work-bag  on  his  back, 
He  climbed  that  April  morning  up  the  track 
That  took  you  by  a  short  cut  through  the  wood 
Up  to  the  hill-top  where  the  great  house  stood, 
When  suddenly  beyond  the  firs'  thick  night 
He  saw  a  young  fawn  frisking  in  the  light : 
Shaking  the  dew-drops  in  a  silver  rain 
From  off  his  dappled  hide,  he  leapt  again 
As  though  he'd  jump  out  of  his  skin  for  joy. 
With  laughing  eyes  light-hearted  as  a  boy, 
He  watched  the  creature,  unaware  of  him, 
Quivering  with  eager  life  in  every  limb, 
Leaping  and  frisking  on  the  dewy  green 
Beneath  the  flourish  of  the  snowy  gean, 
While  every  now  and  then  the  long  ears  pricked, 
And  budding  horns,  as  he  leapt  higher,  flicked 
The  drooping  clusters  of  wild-cherry  bloom, 
Shaking  their  snow  about  him.     From  the  gloom 
Of  those  dark  wintry  firs,  his  eyes  had  won 
A  sight  of  April  sporting  in  the  sun  — 
Young  April  leaping  to  its  heart's  delight 
Among  the  dew  beneath  the  boughs  of  white  .  .  . 

And  there'd  been  days  among  the  hills,  rare  days 
And  rarer  nights  among  the  heathery  ways  — 
Rare  golden  holidays  when  he  had  been 
Alone  in  the  great  solitude  of  green 
Wave-crested  hills,  a  rolling  shoreless  sea 
Flowing  for  ever  through  eternity  — 
A  sea  of  grasses,  streaming  without  rest 
Beneath  the  great  wind  blowing  from  the  west, 
Over  which  cloud  shadows  sailed  and  swept  away 


LIVELIHOOD  55i 

Beyond  the  world's  edge  all  the  summer  day. 

The  hills  had  been  his  refuge,  his  delight, 
Seen  or  unseen,  through  many  a  day  or  night. 
His  help  was  of  the  hills,  steadfast,  serene 
In  their  eternal  strength,  those  shapes  of  green 
Sublimely  moulded. 

Whatsoever  his  skill, 
No  man  had  ever  rightly  drawn  a  hill  . 
To  his  mind  —  never  caught  the  subtle  curves 
Of  sweeping  moorland  with  its  dips  and  swerves  — 
Nor  ever  painted  heather  .  .  . 

Heather  came 

Always  into  his  mind  like  sudden  flame, 
Blazing  and  streaming  over  stony  braes 
As  he  had  seen  it  on  that  day  of  days 
When  he  had  plunged  into  a  sea  of  bloom, 
Blinded  with  colour,  stifled  with  the  fume 
Of  sun-soaked  blossom,  the  hot  heady  scent 
Of  honey-breathing  bells,  and  sunk  content 
Into  a  soft  and  scented  bed  to  sleep ; 
And  he  had  lain  in  slumber  sweet  and  deep, 
And  only  wakened  when  the  full  moon's  light 
Had  turned  that  wavy  sea  of  heather  white : 
And  still  he'd  lain  within  the  full  moon  blaze 
Hour  after  hour,  bewildered  and  adaze 
As  though  enchanted  —  in  a  waking  swoon 
He'd  lain  within  the  full  glare  of  the  moon 
Until  she  seemed  to  shine  on  him  alone 
In  all  the  world  —  as  though  his  body'd  grown 
Until  it  covered  all  the  earth,  and  he 
Was  s\vaying  like  the  moon-enchanted  sea 
Beneath  that  cold  white  witchery  of  light  .  .  . 
And  now,  the  earth  itself,  he  hung  in  night 
Turning  and  turning  in  that  cold  white  glare 
For  ever  and  for  ever  .  .  . 

She  was  there  — 

There  at  his  window  now,  the  moon.     The  sleet 
And  wind  no  longer  swept  the  quiet  street. 
And  he  was  cold :  the  fire  had  burnt  quite  low : 
And,  while  he'd  dreamt,  there'd  been  a  fall  of  snow 
He  wondered  where  that  poor  old  man  would  hide 
His  head  to-night  with  thirst  unsatisfied  .  .  . 
His  thirst,  who  knows!  but  night  may  quench  the  thirst 


552  LIVELIHOOD 

Day  leaves  unsatisfied  .  .  . 

Well,  he  must  first 

Get  to  his  bed  and  sleep  away  the  night, 
If  he  would  rise  to  see  the  hills  still  white 
In  the  first  glory  of  the  morning  light. 


THE   END 


'"THE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  a 
few  of  the  Macmillan  books  of  poetry. 


Poems 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 


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Here,  assembled  in  one  volume,  are  some  of  the 
more  popular  of  John  Masefield's  poems.  The  best 
of  his  epic  narratives  so  full  of  vivid  action  and  de- 
scription, the  lyrics,  the  ballads,  the  sonnets  and  the 
biographical  poems,  are  all  represented.  The  collec- 
tion should  be  popular  not  only  with  Masefield  ad- 
mirers but  with  all  students  of  contemporary  verse. 

The  Life  of 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

BY  EDMUND  GOSSE,  C.  B. 

Full  page  illustrations  $3.50 

Except  for  Mr.  Gosse's  own  brief  sketch  of  Swin- 
burne in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  this  is 
the  first  biography  of  the  poet. 

"  One  of  the  most  interesting  volumes  of  biography  to 
come  from  the  presses  in  a  long  time.  It  is  full  of  well- 
chosen  reminiscence  and  anecdote  at  once  vital  and  discreet, 
affords  a  picture  of  the  development,  the  character,  the  life 
of  the  poet  that  has  life  and  color  and  gives  to  the  reader 
an  intimate  sense  of  personal  knowledge,  and  it  contains  also 
much  valuable  critical  estimate  of  Swinburne's  work."  — 
N.  Y.  Times. 


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The  New  Poetry    An  Anthology 

EDITED    BY 

HARRIET  MONROE 

Author  of  "  You  and  I  " 
AND 

ALICE  CORBIN  HENDERSON 
EDITORS  OF  "POETRY" 


"  Not  the  least  worthy  feature  of  the  collection  is  found  in  Miss 
Monroe's  fine  preface."  —  Chicago  Herald. 

"  Vital  and  significant  .  .  .  and  charged  with  the  secret  of  new 
life."  —  Louisville  Post. 

"  Distinctly  a  book  worth  having  .  .  .  filled  with  beauty  and 
excellence."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  Of  real  importance  for  all  those  who  are  interested  in  poetry 
and  its  development  .  .  .  altogether  it  is  a  volume  of  the  greatest 
worth  and  interest."  —  New  York  Herald. 

"  A  valuable  anthology  .  .  .  gives  a  definite  idea  of  some  of 
the  achievements  and  tendencies  of  current  verse."  —  New  York 
Times. 

LEWIS  V.  LEDOUX 

Yzdra  :  A  Tragedy  in  Three  Acts 

$1.25 

"  The  reader  is  struck  by  the  fascinating  possibilities  of  Yzdra 
as  acting  drama.  It  would  make  a  striking  and  beautiful  play  for 
the  stage,  and  we  can  well  imagine  that  even  the  greatest  actress 
would  be  glad  to  assume  the  r&le  of  the  ill-fated  Princess.  The 
dialogue  is,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  stage,  certain  in  its  ef- 
fective quality."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  There  are  both  grace  and  strength  in  this  drama  and  it  also 
possesses  the  movement  and  spirit  for  presentation  upon  the 
stage.  Some  of  the  figures  used  are  striking  and  beautiful,  quite 
free  from  excess,  and  someiimes  almost  austere  in  their  restraint. 
The  characters  are  clearly  individualized  and  a  just  balance  is 
preserved  in  the  action."  —  Outlook. 


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NEW  MACMILLAN  POETRY 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON'S  NEW  BOOK 

Merlin 

"A  man  with  something  to  say  that  has  value  and  beauty.  .  .  , 
His  thought  is  deep  and  his  ideas  are  high  and  stimulating."  —  Boston 
Transcript.  Mr.  Robinson's  new  book  is  a  long  narrative  poem  dealing, 
in  all  the  bright  freshness  of  his  distinctive  art,  with  the  old  Arthurian 
legend  of  Merlin  and  Vivien.  This  modern  treatment  of  an  ancient 
theme  is  new  evidence  of  Mr.  Robinson's  notable  power  as  a  poet  and 
a  delineator  of  the  emotions  of  the  truly  living.  $1-25 

RALPH  HODGSON'S  NEW  BOOK 

Poems 

Recently  awarded  the  Edward  de  Polignac  prize  for  poetry,  Ralph 
Hodgson  is  already  well  known  in  this  country.  Those  who  have  read, 
in  the  little  yellow  chap  books  of  the  "Flying  Fame,"  "The  Song  of 
Honour,"  "Eve,"  "The  Bull"  and  others  will  welcome  their  publication 
in  this  American  edition.  "'Eve,'  .  .  .  The  most  fascinating  poem 
of  our  time."  —  The  Nation.  $  .75 

JOHN  CURTIS  UNDERWOOD'S  NEW  BOOK 

War  Flames 

Mr.  Underwood's  is  one  of  those  searching  imaginations  which  go  to 
the  heart  of  things  for  the  fabric  of  their  visions.  Out  of  the  flames 
and  tumult  and  the  furious  rush  of  war  he  has  built  gripping  pictures 
which  hint  of  what  is  back  of  all  wars,  all  hopes  of  peace.  $/.J5 


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The  Road  to  Castaly 

BY  ALICE  BROWN 

Author   of   "  Children  of   Earth,"   "  The   Prisoner,"   etc. 

$1.50 

Readers  of  Children  of  Earth,  and  of  many  other  of  Miss 
Brown's  books  for  that  matter,  must  have  seen  many  an 
evidence  about  them  of  the  really  natural  poet.  Some  years 
ago,  furthermore,  she  published  a  little  collection  of  verse 
which  was  warmly  received  by  the  critics,  and  which  served 
to  intensify  the  desire  for  more.  This  volume,  then,  will  be 
welcome  to  Miss  Brown's  admirers,  and  to  literature  lovers 
generally.  It  contains  the  earlier  poems  referred  to,  which 
were,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  also  issued  under  the  title  of  The 
Road  to  Castaly,  and  much  new  material  as  well  —  the  poet's 
latest  and  most  mature  work. 


A  PLAY  BY  SIR  RABINDRANATH  T  A  GORE 

The  Cycle  of  Spring 

Cloth,   izrno,  $1.25 
Leather,  $1.75 

This,  the  latest  and  richest  of  the  author's  plays,  was  re- 
cently performed  in  the  courtyard  of  his  Calcutta  home  by 
the  masters  and  boys  of  Shantiniketan.  The  success  was 
immense:  and  naturally,  for  the  spirit  of  the  play  is  the  spirit 
of  universal  youth,  filled  with  laughter  and  lyric  fervour, 
jest  and  pathos  and  resurgence:  immortal  youth  whose  every 
death  is  a  rebirth,  every  winter  an  enfolded  spring. 


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